Broken
by handymelon
Summary: A new crew story set after Series 5; a proper con and some character development too! No smut... Please read and review, or I get all lonely!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"I can't believe we're running away!" Sean walked from his room with a bag in each hand and dumped them down by the banisters. "We've only just got back off holiday."

"Not running away, my boy," Albert looked over his glasses from his place at the table. His own small case was already packed and standing at the head of the stairs. "Strategic withdrawal. He who fights and runs away…"

"… doesn't end up in clink," finished Ash, who was pushing small items of indeterminate function into the pockets and pouches of his laptop bag.

Mickey was folding his suit jacket neatly into his case. "Carlton and Harry could have compromised us. Other people might now know where we're based – and they might start asking questions."

"If 'other people' means Alfie," Emma remarked, "I doubt he can even remember the way to his own bathroom, never mind connect anything!"

"Better safe than sorry."

"Strategic withdrawal it is, then. To where?" Emma travelled light, and her single holdall of dresses, jackets and skinny jeans was on the floor by her booted feet.

"Ash?" Mickey asked without turning his head.

"Choice of three." Ash flipped open the pad on the table and spun it round so that Emma could read the addresses.

"Hmmm…" she cocked her head to one side and considered.

Sean came across to join her, leaning over the table to see. "What about that one?"

"The Clarendon," Emma read out. "Ooh, it's got a spa!"

Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ash, who shrugged. "Might as well grab it while we can get it."

"Oh, I don't object." Leaning on the lid of his case, Mickey zipped it securely. "Just thinking about outgoings."

"We're comfortably solvent, at present." Albert, who had taken over managing the books since Stacie had left the crew, tucked his glasses into his pocket and stood up. "And I'm sure Ash got us a bargain price."

Ash looked modest. "Let's just say it's not what you know, it's who you know, and leave it at that."

"Isn't it a bit of a waste, paying for hotels?" Sean asked. The others turned to look at him and he faltered a little. "I mean… can't we grift the managers? Fake a credit card or something?"

Mickey, Ash and Albert exchanged glances and shuddered, the memory of fleeing the Lexington Hotel following Danny's attempts to do just as Sean had suggested still fresh in their minds even after three years.

Emma slapped Sean on the arm. "Now look what you've done!"

"Ow!" He rubbed the sore spot exaggeratedly, aggrieved. "What was that for?"

"You made them pull that face. You know – the "you're far too young and foolish to understand, but we have our reasons" face. And you made them do it _all at the same time_!"

***********************

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this one so far, Albert." Ash leaned forward across the table a little, keeping his voice low. "It's a bit … well …"

"Grubby?" suggested Albert.

"That's one way of putting it, yeah."

Albert nodded without looking up. He was playing his third deliberate hand of Patience out on the balcony of their new suite at the Clarendon, having failed to persuade any of the others to partner him in any kind of card game. Ash suspected he might have found a way to cheat against himself. "I agree it's all a little sordid," the veteran grifter said mildly, "but in these hard times we have to be as prepared as anyone else to dig through the trash. Besides…" he grinned over at Ash, the sunlight twinkling off his spectacles, "…you have to admit that taking this guy down is going to be a very special kind of pleasure."

"I'm not saying it won't be." Ash leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "I'm just saying I'm not sure I like the idea of us going down to his level. Emma as a hooker and Mickey as her pimp? It's just … wrong. Ugh." He gave a little shudder, glancing in through the French windows. "And I know somebody not so far away who's going to like it even less…"

As though his words had been a magic charm, there came a sudden commotion from inside the room.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Sean's voice shot up an octave with righteous indignation at the end of the sentence. "Whose crackbrained idea was this?!?"

"Mine!" his sister snapped, forcefully enough to make the lad blink. "Nobody forced me, nobody persuaded me, nobody coerced me – in fact, no-one else even suggested it. We needed a way in to this guy and I came up with the idea. Me. So don't even think about embarking on a quest for my honour, okay? This is the way it's going to happen. Unless you fancy gender reassignment surgery so you can play the part yourself. I've got a blunt penknife somewhere!"

Sean sat with his mouth hanging open.

Ash and Albert exchanged glances and winced.

"Perhaps we should sit down together and refine the plan?" suggested Mickey, who had emerged from his bedroom during Emma's tirade.

He beckoned to the two out on the balcony and they nodded and came into the room to take up their accustomed places; Albert in the high-backed leather swivel chair and Ash sprawled on the sofa with his arm along the back and one ankle cocked on the other knee. Mickey and Emma sat down in the other two chairs.

Sean looked at them all. "Don't see what there is to refine. Got it all worked out, aintcha?" he muttered, and slouched out through the French windows.

Emma rolled her eyes and made as if to stand up, but Ash raised a hand and got to his feet. "Leave it with me," he said.

As the fixer's broad-shouldered frame disappeared in Sean's wake, the others exchanged looks. Emma bit her lip. "I shouted a bit louder than I meant to."

Albert picked up his newspaper and gave it a little shake to straighten it. "Don't worry. It's perfectly natural for him to feel protective of you, and perfectly natural for you to want to be independent."

"Which is he most annoyed about – the hooker part or the pimp part?" Mickey asked

"I… didn't give him chance to say," Emma confessed. "Not very helpful, really. Sorry."

Mickey smiled comfortingly and got to his feet. "No harm done. Let Ash talk him down and then we'll run over everything together. I'll order us some coffee." He peered out onto the balcony as he passed and was privately reassured to see Sean and his mentor deep in conversation. Sean's automatic reaction to any situation which he saw as threatening toward his sister was, as Albert said, completely natural, but it was also proving a little wearing. And if Sean had been able to read Mickey's mind half as well as Mickey could read Sean's it would have been downright embarrassing.

Mickey sighed a little as he picked up the phone. It was fine. His feelings for Emma were completely under control and would in no way affect the crew. He was far too experienced and professional to let that happen. He ignored the little voice in his head that was suggesting to him that he could turn to see if he might catch a glimpse of her legs from this angle, and dialled the number for room service.

*********************

Ash rested his forearms on the wrought-iron railings and stared out across the city, squinting in the sunshine. "You've got to ease up on this a bit, kid."

"I just made myself look like a right idiot, didn't I?"

"On balance, I'd say you did, yeah."

Sean hunched his shoulders. Huddled into himself on Albert's recently-vacated chair he looked about fifteen. "I just wish she'd said something to me first."

"Why do you think she didn't?" Ash asked, turning round to face him.

"Probably cos she thought I'd kick off."

Ash laughed, not unkindly. "You lived right down to expectations on that one, didn't you?" Seeing the dejected look on the younger man's face he temporised a little. "Look – I know you're just trying to do what's right. But if you go off the deep end every time a situation like this comes up she's going to start resenting you. Then she'll stop talking to you. Then we're all in trouble." He leaned back against the railings and folded his arms. "If we're gonna work as a crew, we've got to trust each other's judgement. You can have your say, and we'll listen, but if Emma's okay with this then it's got to be her call. All right?"

Sean nodded slowly. "It's just hard, you know. She's my sister. I don't like the thought of…"

"If it's any comfort, I'm not too keen meself. But Mickey'll watch her back. He's the best. You know that."

"Okay." Standing up, Sean squared his shoulders. "Let's try this again."

Ash patted him on the shoulder. "Good lad."

They re-entered the room just as Emma went to answer the door to the concierge. Albert and Mickey both glanced up casually and Ash, from behind Sean's back, gave them a reassuring little nod. Emma brought the tray across and put it down on the coffee table before going over to her brother and kissing his cheek. "Sorry."

"Nah, me too." He sat down on the sofa and looked around the group. "Sorry everybody. Over-reacted. Sensible head on."

Mickey nodded, impressed, and sat forward in his seat. "Okay," he began. "Let's go over what we know."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Albert held out his hand as he rose to his feet, and Ash tossed him the remote control for the laptop. Generally Albert had little knowledge or understanding of IT, but he'd taken to PowerPoint presentations like a natural and now stood in the middle of the rug with his hands on his lapels, exuding all the learned panache of a Harvard lecturer. "William Henry Forgan," he announced, flourishing the remote, and a huge black and white photograph filled the wall behind his head.

Emma stared up at the fleshy jowls, bristling black eyebrows and scarred, pockmarked skin of their intended target. "That's truly hideous," she announced.

"And he's just as attractive on the inside," Albert said, looking up at the picture with dislike. "Originally a native of Belfast, but arrived on these fair shores when he made his home town too hot to hold him. Owner of a property company called New Horizons. He began by dealing in second homes in Spain and France, but over the last ten years he's done very nicely for himself in the buy-to-let market."

A flick of the remote and the picture changed to show a composite image of a Victorian house converted into flats and a villa by a wide stretch of blue sea. Albert looked across at Mickey.

"I've been to several branches of New Horizons and it appears he has two main areas of clientele," Mickey took up the tale. "On the one hand, they sell badly-built second homes to wealthy retired couples, and on the other, they specialise in private rentals to low-income families and people on the poverty line. Basically, they buy a place, divide it into flats, do it up to a basic standard and then pack in as many people as they can."

"So he's ripping off rich people and fleecing poor ones," Sean summarised. "So far, so property magnate, right?"

"Yeah – but that's not the whole story," Ash chimed in. "I asked around a bit and it seems he runs deals on the side, using his contacts on the continent. He's not fussy – anything a bit bent and he'll put his fingers in it. It's got worse the longer he's gone on - he started off importing illegal booze, counterfeit fags, moved onto drugs… and the latest one is people." The screen behind his head flickered and the picture now showed a bigger shot of the Victorian house at night. The door was half-open and the figure of a man could be seen entering the house. "Forgan's got agents all over Eastern Europe looking for young women and signing them up. They think they're coming over here to be models, nannies, whatever. They charge these girls big sums in cash to be shipped across – in lorries, mostly, though some come over in private cars. Then when they get them here they tell them they need more money; which, of course, the girls ain't got."

"So they put them to work," Emma finished, anger in her voice.

"That's about the size of it," Ash agreed grimly. "New Horizons has properties all over the country, so they move the girls in, set them up as hookers, tell them they've got to work till they've paid off what they owe. The girls can't leave; they've got no passports, no way of claiming benefit, don't speak the language."

Mickey stood up, hands in his pockets, and prowled across to stand by Albert. "The difficult part is that Forgan's a criminal," he said. "The police have to abide by certain rules, but he doesn't. If we go after him and he realises what we're doing we'll leave ourselves wide open." He looked searchingly around at the group. Ash pulled a "been there, seen it, bought the t-shirt" face, whilst Emma shrugged and Sean looked uncertain. "The good news," Mickey went on, "is that in many ways it's an easy job. Forgan's complacent, he's arrogant and he's got any number of vices we could exploit. If we want to, we can roll him over without even breaking a sweat. We just have to decide whether the game is worth the candle."

A silence fell as they considered Mickey's words.

"How did you hit on this guy, Albert?" Ash asked suddenly. "You didn't meet this one in a club or get his name off a hotel doorman, did'ja?"

"Nooo…" Albert admitted slowly, seeming to come to a decision. "There's a little more to the story that I need to share with you." He waved his remote again and a new picture appeared on the screen. This one showed a young man in a suit and tie with his arm round the shoulders of a dark-haired girl.

"Janis Balodis," Albert said. "I met him in prison; he came in a few weeks before I left."

"He's not your usual Category D inmate, is he?" Mickey remarked in a thoughtful tone, shooting Albert a sharp look before, turning round to study the picture carefully.

"He was there serving the last few months of his sentence," Albert explained. "He was working in the prison library while he was inside; that's how we made our acquaintance. Before he became a guest of Her Majesty he worked for Forgan as an agent, travelling between Latvia and the UK and recruiting "clients". There was a break in the chain somewhere along the line, and the police came very close to pulling Forgan in. Someone had to be the fall guy…" he looked up at the picture regretfully. "He isn't a bad kid – just foolish. Thought that he owed Forgan for the opportunities he'd given him. They'd cut a deal – he'd take the fall for Forgan, Forgan would use some contacts to make sure Janis served a short sentence, and he'd see him right when he came out."

"So obviously it all went horribly wrong," Emma crossed her legs and folded her hands around her knee. "What happened?"

"I had a message to call Janis a week ago," Albert said. "He was distraught. Apparently some new evidence against him has been found, his request for parole was turned down and he's been moved back into a category B prison whilst he's being investigated for "related offences." And that's not all." He pointed upward. "The young lady in the picture is his sister, Alise. She came over to the UK when Janis was first arrested, and she visited him every week."

"Oh, let me guess." Mickey was frowning now. "She's stopped visiting."

Albert nodded. "He hasn't seen or heard from her in a month."

"Wait!" Sean was sitting bolt upright in his seat. "You're telling me Forgan stiffed this guy and now he's run off with his sister?"

"That's about the size of it," agreed Albert.

"But…" Sean objected, "You've had us looking into this bloke for two or three days and we thought he was just a businessman with some very dodgy sidelines. Why didn't you tell us all this other stuff in the first place?"

"Because you'd have felt morally obligated into agreeing to do the con before you understood the true nature of what we're up against." Turning off the projector Albert sat down. "Conning greedy businessmen is one thing. Conning crooks is another. It's dangerous. It takes us into a world with very little room for manoeuvre, and we need to be sure that if we do this, we do it with our eyes open to all the risks."

"Well, it's a no-brainer, isn't it?" Ash looked round at the others as he spoke and Emma and Sean nodded their support. "This kid Janis is an idiot, but he don't deserve what's happened to him and nor does the sister. Forgan's a manipulative, immoral arsewipe who needs taking down a peg or three. I say we do it."

"Me too." Sean said firmly.

"Yep," Emma agreed. "There but for the grace of God, you know?"

Mickey looked troubled. "Emma, you'll be right in the front line with this one. Are you _absolutely sure _you want to go ahead with it?"

"Look." Emma sat forward a little in her seat. "When Albert first mentioned Forgan the other day he said we needed a way to get to a guy who was into motorbikes, violence, drugs and women. Nobody's volunteering to get beaten up, the drugs thing would be really dodgy – and all due respect, Ash, but I don't think your F650 is going to cut the mustard in the petrolhead department. The honey-trap's the obvious way to go."

There was a second little silence during which all four of the men tried to find fault with Emma's reasoning, and failed.

"Very well, then," Mickey said at last. "Forgan's our mark. Emma's the lure, and I'll work the inside as her contact. We need to come up with some sort of deal which Forgan will want to buy into, so that's our next priority."

**********************

"Good afternoon!" the appearance of the well-dressed, elderly American gentleman in the reception area of New Horizons' main branch caused heads to go up like hounds on the scent. Albert watched a rash of plastic smiles break out around the sales room as he ambled toward the front desk. "I wonder if you can help me, my dear?" he said to the middle-aged saleswoman whose badge identified her as Eileen. "I'm looking for a retirement home, somewhere warm and away from this infernal British weather." He gave a theatrical little shiver and leaned over the desk. "I'm given to understand that you're the people to talk to."

Eileen's smile threatened to crack her foundation as she stretched it even wider. "Indeed we are, Mr…"

"Waverley," Albert supplied without hesitiation.

"Mr Waverley." Eileen drew out a silver pen and handed him a cardboard portfolio with a flourish worthy of a magician at a children's party. "What exactly are you looking for?"

_If only she knew,_ thought Albert, and settled to his task of charming her socks off.

**************************

Back at the hotel, Ash had his phone in one hand and was tapping at the keys of on his laptop with the other. Jamming the phone into the crook of his neck he scrolled down a page with a quick sweep and double-clicked on a picture to see a zoom view. He pulled a dubious face. "It looks okay, mate, but I'm not sure it's quite what I'm after. How big's the back office? Is that metres or… yeah, gotcha. What about upstairs? Nah, just storage… tell you what, I'll give you my e-mail address and you send me the other pictures, yeah?

****************************

Mickey handed Emma her glass and swung himself into the seat opposite, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand as he did so. He was sporting a trendy, if slightly dubious-looking goatee beard and an earring and was wearing a T-shirt and a heavy gold chain under his very expensive jacket. Emma, whose lipstick was a little redder and hemline a little higher than was strictly necessary, ran her finger over the condensation on the outside of the glass and licked it off. Mickey wished very much that she'd stop that particular habit.

"Where's your brother?" he asked her in a casual undertone.

"By the bar with his new best friends," she replied, taking a drink. "Are we staying here all day?"

Mickey shook his head. "We'll move on in a minute," he said. "This is Forgan's manor, so we need to make ourselves as conspicuous as possible without actually ruffling anyone's feathers. You did remind Sean about not drinking…"

"He didn't need reminding!" Emma sipped at her glass again and grinned. "He's still getting over the embarrassment of that first time!" Letting her gaze wander casually around the room she saw Sean place a comradely arm around the shoulders of a thin, pimply youth, the pair of them bellowing with laughter. "Dear God, has he no shame?"

Mickey followed the direction of her stare and chuckled. "He suffers for his art, that boy. One day we'll give him a pretty girl to chat up instead of a bar-full of sweaty rental agents."

******************************

By the evening, they had accrued a detailed knowledge of the internal structure of New Horizons, found premises to work from, gained an intimate understanding of the way Billy Forgan dealt with his competition, and laid a successful foundation for the edifice they were about to create.

With their raw materials assembled, the crew's next step was to build the first layer of their creation – Forgan was ready for roping.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"I have bad news," Albert announced from the doorway in tones of doom. Four pairs of eyes focussed on him with concern as he crossed the floor and dropped into his chair with a theatrical sigh. "Forgan's a born-again biker."

A chorus of small, irritated noises filled the air at his melodrama and everyone went back to what they'd been doing when he walked in.

"Yeah, well we knew he was into bikes." Ash said, returning his attention to his e-mail.

"No, no – you misunderstand me." Albert loosened his tie a little and sat back in his chair. "He's bought into the lifestyle in a big way. Owns several motorcycles, rides them at weekends very quickly on unsuitable roads – and conducts his social life from a biker's bar."

"Ah!" Mickey put down his copy of the Guardian on the table and folded his hands, smiling broadly. "Now I see the problem."

Emma frowned. "No, sorry. Lost me."

"Albert is many things," Mickey said. "The epitome of charm, a social chameleon, the sharpest grifting mind in the business and a fount of knowledge…" Albert inclined his head modestly "… but the one thing he's not is a convincing biker. Somehow the thought of Albert strolling into a biker's bar in a denim jacket and chatting about axle grease and torque is just never going to ring true."

"Which means that this time someone else is going to have to do the roping," Albert added.

"Leaving us with a choice of two," Mickey finished, his tone mischievous. Emma began to grin as she followed his line of thought.

Ash looked up from his laptop with a startled expression and Sean spluttered into his coffee. "You what?" they chorused.

"The question is," Emma stood beside Mickey's chair and surveyed the candidates judicially, her arms folded, "which one of them looks most like a biker."

"They're both too clean and tidy," Albert declared. "We'll have to muss them up a little."

Mickey leaned back, the better to conduct his own examination. "The key factor in this decision," he said, his eyes dancing, "is which of them will look least out of place in a bar full of men in the grip of a mid-life crisis."

"Oh, thank you very much!" expostulated Ash, as Sean fell about laughing and Albert smiled behind his hand.

"Sorry!" - Mickey looked completely otherwise – "But we need someone Forgan feels he can empathise with."

"Oh, cheer up, Ash, you'll look great!" Emma put in. "We'll get you a denim jacket and a fake ponytail; it'll be brilliant."

"Bloody marvellous," came the tetchy response - but since everyone in the room knew that the grumbling was only about one eighth serious, Ash couldn't keep it up. "Okay, okay!" he sighed, getting to his feet and piling paper back into the A4 ring-binder folder where he kept printouts and photocopies. "I'll have to pass some of the prep jobs on to somebody, though, otherwise it won't be done in time."

"I daresay Sean and I can undertake to fill that vacancy between us," Albert suggested, ignoring Sean's frantic head-shaking. "If you write us a list, I'll do the phoning and the face-to-face work and the boy here can do your technical wizardry and any heavy lifting."

"Sounds like a plan." Ash picked up the folder in both hands, walked across to Sean and without warning dropped it heavily in his lap. "Careful with that," he advised as Sean, stung by the impact, struggled to keep a grip on the folder without dropping his coffee mug. "More useful information in there than you've learned in your short life. Right." He picked up his jacket from the back of the sofa. "Better get equipped, then."

"Ooh, shopping?" Emma grabbed her own jacket and picked up her bag. "Count me in!"

Mickey rose to his feet and leaned down to slap Sean gently on the shoulder. "Well done, Sean. You'll learn a lot from Albert."

Sean eyed him sourly from his half-horizontal position on the sofa, the folder still balanced across his thighs. He knew full well that over the course of the next few days he would be outmanoeuvred at every turn, given every sweaty, gritty job that Albert didn't fancy and end up owing him a fortune in gambling debts – and furthermore he knew that if he complained he'd be told that it was all part of the job, and the sooner he learned that grifting wasn't all about glamour the better. The fact that he was only just beginning to comprehend how complex and varied the life of a grifter could be, and how essential it was to be able to turn one's hand to just about anything, didn't make him feel any better at this moment.

Mickey departed for the bathroom to start applying his pimp's goatee in preparation for later. Left alone, Sean and Albert exchanged looks.

"Thanks for that, Albert!" Sean sat up carefully and began to leaf through the pages of the folder.

"Now now, my boy. Where's your sense of team spirit?" asked the older man, picking up his newspaper and beginning to read.

Sean stared indignantly. "I thought you said you'd help me?"

"Oh, I will," Albert assured him, peering over the top of the paper. "You let me know the moment you need a telephone call making. In the meantime…" he tapped the paper with his finger "…I'll conduct a little more research."

Sean moved to stand up, lost his tenuous grip on the folder and spilled the pages in their slithery A4 pockets in an avalanche across the carpet. Avoiding Albert's eye he knelt down to retrieve them. This was not going to be a good day.

*****************

A few hours later a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard and a long straggle of ponytail dangling down the back of his battered leather jacket slouched into the Ace Café on the North Circular road and settled himself on a stool at the end of the bar which allowed him a view of both the other patrons and the door. He ordered a bottle of beer and let his gaze wander casually around the room as he drank it.

Ash genuinely wasn't keen on playing the part of the roper. He'd turned his hand to it on occasion, but it called for a lot of flying by the seat of the pants stuff which he wasn't fond of. Ash liked things properly thought through, weighed up and if possible measured three times before he put them to the test. He took a swallow of his beer and called down a thousand curses on the smoking regulations; not that he smoked all that many, these days, but he'd have killed for a roll-up at that moment. It would have been in character, too, which somehow made it worse. Maybe he could get Forgan to wander outside with him for a fag when he turned up. If he turned up. That was the other thing Ash disliked about roping – too much hanging around waiting for someone else to make the first move instead of having things under his control. There was certainly no sign of the ugly old sod at the moment.

Turning back to the bar, Ash weighed up the staff. The young blonde girl was a bit too trendy and full of herself, the two blokes too busy trying to impress the girl. The curvy brunette in her mid-thirties, though, was another thing entirely – chatty and pleasant-natured. He waited until she was free and then caught her eye. "Bring us another one of these can you, love?" he asked, waving his empty bottle and giving her his most appealing smile.

"Not seen you in here before," she said, returning the smile as she brought his drink over.

"Just moved into the area." Ash handed her a ten pound note, allowing his fingers to brush against hers as he did so. "You having one yourself?"

She twinkled at him coquettishly. "Ta very much."

Ash settled his elbows on the bar. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad after all.

*****************

"… and according to Julie the best time to see him's at the end of the week. Thursday or Friday. So I'll head back over there tomorrow and hopefully we'll be well away." Ash, sitting on the sofa, was wiping the last of the spirit gum off his face as he spoke, whilst Emma carefully unravelled the extensions from the back of his hair.

"Julie a bit of a looker, is she?" Sean enquired chirpily, and winked when Ash looked up from his mirror. "Sounds like you're well in there, mate!"

"Nah." Swiping at his chin with a makeup wipe Ash squinted at the little mirror in his hand and angled his head to see under his jawline. "It's not me she fancies, it's Ozzy the biker, innit? And anyway…"

"… never let a mark get under your skin." Albert chimed in firmly. "That way lies disaster."

"I _was_ going to say it wouldn't be very fair to mess her about when it's not her we're after," Ash said. "But he's right. We're supposed to mess with their heads, not the other way round." He winced a little as Emma tugged the last strands of the ponytail free and dropped it in his lap.

"All done!" she chirped, walking round to sit on the sofa beside Mickey.

"Emma and I have been talking to some of the girls who work round Forgan's patch," Mickey said. "Well, Emma's been talking. I've been standing in the background looking mysterious."

"Forgan's got a bad rep," Emma said quietly. "He treats his girls like animals. They don't get medical care, practically every penny they earn goes back to Forgan to pay off the debts they supposedly owe him. And he's a violent drunk. I'm not surprised your friend's in a state, Albert. I wouldn't want a relative of mine anywhere near that pig." She shivered a little. "I want to try to get her away from him before…" her voice trailed away, but she didn't need to finish the thought. They could all imagine what Forgan might be capable of.

"I think we have a little time before he tires of her, but not much," Albert said. "For the moment she's a prized new possession, so she'll be safe until he finds something he likes better. Sean and I have made good progress on the premises", he added, deliberately moving the tone of the conversation to a more positive note.

"You mean, you've spent the day chatting people up on the phone while I hammered about all over London looking round mucky old dives," countered Sean in mock disgust.

"Each to his own," Albert teased gently. "We found a place which we think can be renovated at minimal cost, and which we can take on a weekly rent…"

"… he means, I get to go in there and clean the dump up, and he spends the time taking the old girl who owns it round town for tea and buns…" put in Sean

"… because the elderly woman who owns it has no way of renovating it herself and has agreed to the arrangement because it will considerably raise the value of her property." Albert finished as though Sean hadn't spoken.

"Good to see you're continuing his education, Albert." Ash was poker-faced.

"I knew you'd expect no less of me."

"Enough!" Mickey took pity on Sean at last. "Leave the poor boy alone."

"He's worked really hard!" Emma said sympathetically, as Sean made a whipped puppy face and nodded vigorously.

Mickey stood up and stretched. "Let's go down to Eddie's," he suggested.

"Good idea!" Seeing an escape route, Sean was on his feet in an instant. "I'll go on ahead and get a round in!"


	4. Chapter 4

**So, finally, I've updated!**

**My sincere apologies to those of you kind enough to R and R for me that I've left you dangling for so long, but a quick look at my profile will hopefully mean that you'll understand and forgive!**

**In the meantime, here be Chapter 4, and whilst I'm sure it's not worth the wait you had I hope it's at least up to par.**

**Other chapters will follow more quickly that this one did, though I grant you that ain't saying much!**

**Thanks again for your kind patience**

**Handy x**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

He'd cracked it, Sean decided, as he flung open the doors of the big white van and began passing out the gear. After a period of close study, he'd divined the secret of Albert's success.

Up until now, the rookie grifter had felt himself to be a little distant from the veteran. He'd worked alongside Ash, mostly, and taken Mickey as his guiding light; Albert had remained an affable but slightly remote figure to be by turns listened to, marvelled at and avoided whenever he descended upon Sean with a pack of cards in his hand and a particular gleam in his eye. The last couple of weeks, fulfilling the role of fixer together with the older man, Sean had been able to observe for himself the way Albert operated and had become more and more intrigued.

In typically perverse fashion, although Albert possessed charm, intelligence and resourcefulness by the bucketload it was none of these things which formed the keystone of his grifting career. The deciding factor was that he was a walking oxymoron – an honest con-artist. He might present himself to the world as a smooth-talking rogue, and the actions he performed on a day-to-day basis were frequently both illegal and rooted in a web of half-truths and downright fictions, but at the core Albert Stroller was a man of the highest integrity.

Take their ongoing job as an example. It was wholly typical of Albert to have spent much of the last week squiring a retired dancer around London (and even more typical that the lady in question should bear a strong resemblance to Helen Mirren). It was also par for the course that he should be doing so under entirely false premise that he was one of the financial backers behind an independent film company who wanted to use her Victorian house as a set for a forthcoming production, when in fact it would be used as part of the crew's current elaborate con. And it was central to the whole way in which Albert worked that the alterations being performed upon said house by Sean and his team would, by the time they had finished, make considerable improvements to the property in terms of its décor, its layout and its long-term value.

Lifting out the stepladders, Sean passed them across to Ambrozy and Karol, the two brawny Polish builders Ash had recruited to carry out the actual building work. Ash had also, much to Sean's relief, sat down with his apprentice for the last few evenings and gone through everything that needed to be done, drawing diagrams and making detailed annotations when Sean began to look out of his depth.

As he locked the van Sean patted his pocket to check that the precious sheaf of papers was still in situ and then headed off to join the builders in Mrs Carmen's kitchen–diner. Retaining the information he'd been given was never a problem for Sean, but he was concerned that passing it on to two blokes who (a) knew what they were doing far better than he did and (b) had English very much as their second language was going to be a little bit interesting.

Fortunately it proved well within Sean's capabilities to spread Ash's drawings across the well-scrubbed table, put the kettle on and undertake to decipher Ash's handwriting when required. Karol spoke English a little better than Ambrozy, which wasn't saying much, but between the three of them they managed to make use of a couple of pencils, a fair amount of frowning, headshaking, nodding, exclamations, table thumping, pointing, and several cups of very sugary tea to reach a consensus. By mutual agreement Sean was initially allocated the tasks of sheeting-up and beginning to strip the wallpaper in the living-room, on the grounds that these were things even he couldn't cock up, whilst the other two began sawing and hammering with great industry.

Physical labour had never been Sean's first love, but as he unfolded acres of cotton canvas he could understand the satisfaction that Ash took in his work. His part of the whole was proceeding as planned, and whatever the wallpaper might have in store for him at least he could be sure it wasn't going to ask him an awkward question or suddenly spot at the crucial moment that he was wearing the wrong shoes. Content with his lot, Sean began to whistle.

* * *

As her brother's mood improved, Emma's was darkening. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she had talked herself into a situation she was less than happy with – and worse, she could see no way to back out.

Although she'd had to fend for herself and look after Sean from an early age, native intelligence, quick wit and a good scoop of luck had saved her from ever having to join the prostitutes on their street corners and in their cheap hotel rooms. She'd known many of the girls and their pimps over the years and had paddled in the shallows of their world. Not until she had begun to voluntarily immerse herself again had she realised how deep those waters could be, nor how afraid she was of them.

Over the last two or three weeks she'd spent most of her time sitting in bars in the red-light districts and chatting to working girls on street corners and coffee shops, gleaning the information she wanted and establishing herself as a new face in the area. The longer this had gone on, the more sharply aware Emma became that her life now was cocooned from reality; with that awareness came a queasy, fearful understanding of what might happen if she should ever lose that protection. Since joining Mickey's crew, Emma had been absorbed by the thrill of working the long con alongside three accomplished operators, riding a wave of adrenaline. Dipping back into the world of her past had jolted her back to reality, and she found herself considering Albert's age, Mickey's restlessness. After years of priding herself that she could deal with anything and anyone, she had let herself become dependent upon the reassuring unit that Mickey had forged. If the crew broke up – what then?

In other circumstances she'd have gone and chatted to one of the others about her fears – probably Ash, who would listen without judging and offer good common-sense advice and reassurance. But her spirited and very public outburst to Sean in the early days of the project had closed this avenue to her – after insisting so vehemently for all to hear that she was perfectly fine with this plan, her pride would never let her admit that she was having doubts.

Emma sighed and glanced up from her wine-glass as a movement caught her eye, and was forced to abandon her introspection as the force of nature that was Danielle Ashcroft swept down upon her in a gust of Chanel and a clatter of gold jewellry.

"All right, darlin'? Thought you was workin' tonight?" Flopping down onto the banquette opposite, Danielle loosened the straps of her teetering heels and sighed lustily. "Gawd, that's better! You been stood up?"

Emma shook her head, mentally giving her brain a shake at the same time. "Just postponed. He called to rearrange a later time, so I've got a couple of hours to kill." Lifting her almost-empty drink she drained the dregs and then wiggled the glass enticingly. "I'm getting another – you want one?"

"I'm finished for the day, love, so you can get me a Cheeky Vimto."

"At five in the afternoon?" Emma shuddered and pulled a "yuck!" face.

"You'd be knocking the strong stuff back at five in the afternoon if you'd been boosting Sweaty Eric's ego for the last few hours." Danielle shrugged off her fake leopardskin coat with a martyred air.

"You're absolutely right – I would!" Emma responded in heartfelt tones as she headed for the bar.

"Where's Mr Gorgeous, then?" Danielle demanded, as Emma returned to the table bearing one dark-red sticky concoction and one soda-water masquerading as a vodka and tonic.

"Keeping his distance and finding me some business, I hope."

Having made sure that he had been seen sufficiently in Emma's company to establish his role as her pimp, Mickey had now retreated, not altogether willingly, into a supporting part until such time as the con demanded him centre-stage once more. He was, in fact, sitting round the corner in a borrowed Renault which would later be returned, unharmed, to its owner and replaced by a different vehicle on the next excursion. Theoretically Mickey was reading the paper; in practice he was drumming his fingers on the steering-wheel and glancing at his watch with increasing frequency. It was almost time for Emma to check in.

* * *

Ash was feeling distinctly uneasy. Not about roping Billy Forgan – he could see his target sitting a few feet away at the bar and already had his opening line ready for the appropriate moment. The problem was Julie the barmaid, who had clearly taken quite a shine to Ozzy the biker and was going to find herself unceremoniously dumped once the con was played out. It wasn't often Ash found himself in this position, and it had begun to prey on his mind so much that he'd gone so far as to mention it to Albert.

"Don't worry," his friend had said, patting Ash's knee in a fatherly fashion. "She'll soon get over being mad at you, and in years to come you'll be a fond memory for her to look back on."

Ash watched Julie give him a quick smile as she hurried by with a freshly-pulled pint. Albert's theory was all very well, he thought, if you were Albert Stroller or Mickey Bricks. Either of them could walk into a room and have every soul in it eating out of their hands in seconds. Ash had no doubt that there were women all over England spanning three generations who looked back with a smile on their memories of the roguish stranger who'd charmed them off their feet and then vanished as suddenly as he'd arrived. Not quite so straightforward if you were a mere mortal. Ash strongly suspected that he – or at least Ozzy – would live on for Julie less as the memory of a romantic adventure and more as a feckless git who talked a load of bollocks. Every time he winked or smiled in response to a look from Julie, Ash felt that little bit worse.

It was something of a relief to see Forgan sit up in his seat and start slapping his pockets in search of a lighter. Ash slid down from his stool and followed Forgan to the door, flipping his own lighter from his pocket. He knew Forgan wouldn't find what he was looking for, because Ash had nicked it when he'd knocked into Forgan by the fag machine about an hour before.

Stepping out into the beer garden Ash paused, a roll-up dangling from the corner of his mouth, beside the frustrated Irishman. "Need a light, pal?" he enquired, his accent heavily laced with an Australian twang.

Forgan grunted. "Cheers." He leaned forward to dip the end of his cigarette into the flame Ash obligingly sparked from his lighter.

Ash lit his own cigarette and stared round the car-park filled with motorcycles of every conceivable shape and size. "Bloody amazing place, this, mate. Only just found it. Haven't been in London long." His enthusiasm elicited only a second grunt, and a sideways glance told him that Forgan was a fast smoker and had already disposed of half his cigarette. Time to alter tack. "Now that…" Ash pointed his rollup at a nearby Harley Davidson, "...is one hell of a bike."

"Damn right she is." There was a pause which felt roughly a year long, and then Forgan went on: "She wants to be, for what she cost me."

_Got you, you grumpy little arse!_ thought Ash, who had been careful to take note of Forgan's bike when he'd watched him arrive an hour or so ago. Aloud he exclaimed, in suitably impressed tones: "That one's yours? She's tremendous!"

Forgan shrugged, but there was a light in his eye. "You want to take a look at her?"

The rest of the afternoon would have been quite pleasant in other circumstances. Ash liked bikes – he liked anything you could take apart and put back together – and a few hours talking bikes and drinking beer would ordinarily be a pleasant way to end the day. Unfortunately, Forgan's company could have taken the shine off the Crown Jewels. Ash had known crooks of all sorts, from charming rogues to out and out psychopaths, and Forgan was one of the less pleasant. Egotistical, aggressive and totally lacking in any sense of irony he was just about as personable as his photographs had suggested. He knew his bikes, though. Ash strongly suspected that if a fire broke out at his home Forgan would save his bike over any living thing that happened to be on the premises, quite possibly including his mother. Whilst this made Ash's job easier, it didn't make it any more agreeable. The beer helped, but not that much.

* * *

In the bar, Danielle shook the hair back off her face and drained half her glass in one gulp. "Business all right?" she asked

Emma shrugged. "Going okay. I've got a couple I could put your way, if you like."

"Ooh, no, I don't like those city types." Danielle grimaced and took another, smaller sip of her drink. "They're too used to chucking their weight around. Bunch of pervs. Give me a nice straightforward brickie any day!"

That made Emma give a genuine laugh. "What – like Sweaty Eric?"

"Listen, love – Eric might have a bit of a personal odour problem, but he's a good boy who's nice and reliable and does as he's told. _And_ he pays in cash! Give me an Eric any day over one of those…" Danielle abruptly broke off in mid-flow and gaped across the room over Emma's shoulder. "Well, now, there's something you don't see every day. Don't look yet!" she added in a hissed whisper as Emma instinctively began to turn her head. "Hang on… yeah, now!"

Half-turning in her seat as though picking up a dropped napkin, Emma covertly peered at two or three heavily-built men accompanying a young woman into the hotel. "So? she shrugged, turning back to Danielle. "I was expecting Kylie at the very least…"

"Don't you know who that is?" Danielle seemed genuinely stunned. "Thought you'd been here long enough to know… that's Billy Forgan's new bird, that is. Poor cow. He don't let her out much, and never on her own. Bet he's meeting her here."

Emma kept the alarm from reaching her face and stooped again to rummage in her bag. Swivelling in her chair as she picked the bag up she managed to grab a few seconds for a proper look at Alise Balodis, whilst at the same time using one of the mobile phones in her bag to speed-dial the other one. As though she felt Emma's gaze upon her the other girl turned her head, and for a fleeting instant their eyes met. Then the heavies closed in tighter around her, and Alise was hurried away.

Ten minutes later, after a conversation with an imaginary punter on the mobile and a hasty apology to Danielle, Emma was yanking open the door of the Renault, startling Mickey as she flopped into the front seat. She was vaguely aware that he was asking her something, but it was only when he put his hand on her shoulder that she focussed on his worried face and realised that he was asking if she was OK.

Her head still reeling from the moment when Alise's desolate eyes had looked into hers, Emma dug in her pocket, produced a tissue and blew her nose fiercely. "I've seen her." Mickey looked blank. "Alise Balodis," she snapped. Anger was safer than sympathy at the moment. If he was nice to her again she was going to dissolve. She sat up, decisive. "We need to change the plan, Mickey. We need to get her out. Now."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

No-one was sitting down. It wasn't that sort of conversation.

"Emma…" Mickey was being reasonable. The effort he was making to remain so was evident in every line of his body.

Ash chimed in: "Ems, I'm not sure…"

Sean looked from his friends to his sister and kept his mouth shut.

Emma was working hard on Not Crying. "She needs our help," she said in a voice that was almost steady. "We can't just abandon her."

Mickey opened his mouth to explain, reasonably, that no-one was planning to abandon anyone; and then caught Albert looking at him and closed it again, gesturing for the veteran grifter to say his piece.

Albert's voice, like his posture, was completely relaxed. "Ash, what's the position with Billy Forgan?"

The temporary roper stuck his hands in his pockets and blew out his cheeks. "Early days," he declared after some seconds of thought. "We got talking, I bought him a pint, he bought me a pint, he's coming to give me his valuable opinion on a bike tomorrow. Then I've gotta give 'im a couple of days before I get back to him to tell him how much I appreciate what he's done, I'd like to return the favour, I've had a sniff of something that might be right up his street, blah, blah, blah. I don't wanna rush 'im. He's not exactly what you'd call laid-back."

Albert nodded. "The difficulty lies in the fact that if we move too fast with Forgan he'll spot us a mile off," he explained to the room in general, though the words were implicitly directed toward Emma. "This guy's not some moron with too much money for his own good; he's a clever crook. We need to play him gently…"

"…and making his trophy girlfriend vanish into thin air might not create quite the conditions we're looking for," Ash concluded apologetically.

"I promise you, Emma – the minute we can do it safely, we'll get her out." Mickey laid a hand on Emma's shoulder and could feel the tension vibrating every nerve in her body. He tightened his fingers a fraction in a tiny comforting squeeze.

She stepped away from his touch and nodded, biting her lip. "I'll just…" Waving a hand vaguely in the air she bolted in the direction of her room.

Sean moved to follow her and the other three shook their heads in unison.

"Give her a bit of space," Mickey counselled.

The youngster scrubbed a hand across his forehead. "It's hard on her, this con," he said miserably. "I know she's really struggling, but she won't talk to me."

"You're her little brother, aintcha?" Ash slumped onto the sofa, his body-language a mixture of relief that the issue was temporarily resolved and discomfort at his part in the resolution. "She's not used to dumping her problems on you."

"She's not used to dumping her problems on _anyone_!" Sean sat down beside him, frustrated, and Ash gave him a sympathetic slap or two on the knee.

Albert and Mickey exchanged looks, Mickey's a question and Albert's a confirmation. Mickey nodded, satisfied. He would have spoken to Emma himself, but he had the feeling he'd only make things worse. He knew first hand the benefits of Albert's wisdom, and at least Emma and Albert wouldn't spend the whole conversation trying to pretend they weren't attracted to each other.

* * *

Twelve o'clock was striking in the tower of one of London's many churches and the sun was pleasantly warm. "Billy!" Ash rose to his feet with a guileless smile on his face as Forgan stumped across to his table. "This is proper good of you, mate!"

A long chat with Albert a few days beforehand had brought Ash to the decision that Forgan was most likely to nibble at the bait if his ego was well-stroked. Consequently, Ozzy the Biker had evolved into a cheery ne'er do well rather than an out-and-out crook; a rather hapless individual who venerated Forgan's every word as Holy Writ and was a few studs short of the full leather jacket.

Forgan nodded perfunctorily. "No problem, Oz. Ye have t' watch the bike trade. It's rotten with criminals." Not a flicker of irony showed on his face. Ash had learned quite quickly that an action was only criminal if it were performed upon Forgan, rather than by him.

They'd arranged to meet in the beer-garden of a pub a few streets from the home of Ash's "vendor", Davey Bishop. Bishop was to turn up at three and take them to view the bike at a lock-up garage that was ostensibly his, so Ash's plan was to sweeten Forgan up with a few beers before Bishop's arrival. Though it might take more than a few, Ash mused as he watched Forgan glowering into his glass. Or something a bit stronger than beer. Like dumping the miserable little bleeder into a barrel of Golden Syrup and holding him down till the bubbles stopped coming up.

* * *

The door of the terraced house jerked open as though powered by jet-thrusters. "What the bloody hell is this?" demanded the woman, her thin face pink with rage.

"Mrs Bishop!" Mickey was smiling so hard he felt as though his face might be about to split open. He kept his hand jammed firmly under the elbow of the swaying man beside him and prayed that Bishop wouldn't fall over. Sean, shoulder under Bishop's armpit at the other side, was wearing his best ingratiating expression. "Ash asked Sean and I to give Davey here a little ride home…"

"_Mick?" Can you grab Sean up and pop over? I just need a bit of a hand…"_

"_A bit of a… what's the problem?"_

"_Well,,, Forgan got edgy."_

"_Yes?"_

"_And slightly inclined towards violence."_

"_Go on…"_

"_And he put the nut on Davey."_

"_He put the..? Is Davey OK?"_

_Ash re-ran the moment in his mind's eye and cringed all over again at the recollected crunch of bone on nasal cartilage. "Basically, yeah. Might have broken his nose a bit."_

"_A bit?"_

"_Just a bit. There's some good news, though."_

"_Which is?"_

"_Forgan got me five hundred quid off the price of the bike, and he's officially my Best Friend in the Whole World."_

"_Splendid. And you need us to…"_

"_Just to pop Davey home to his wife."_

"_Pop him home."_

"_Well, I can't do it, can I? Gotta get back to my mate Billy. He thinks I'm on the lav, and he's going to come crashing in here with a packet of Ex-Lax in a minute. I left Bishop at the lockup with a towel…"_

Elaine Bishop, glaring daggers at Mickey and Sean, slung her husband's arm around her own shoulders and helped him indoors. With the grifters trailing guiltily behind her she manoeuvred him into the kitchen and sat him precariously on a dining chair. Once she had him installed she banged open the door of the freezer, grabbed a bag of peas, wrapped them in a tea-towel and applied the whole to the woebegone face of her husband as a cold compress. Then she turned an equally chilly stare on Mickey. "You still here?"

Mickey had given up the smile, since it clearly wasn't doing him any good. He motioned to Sean and the younger man reached into his jacket pocket, produced an envelope and passed it to Mickey, who held it out to Mrs Bishop in the manner of a peace-offering.

Whipping it from his fingers, Elaine expertly flicked up the flap and riffled through the contents. Then she looked up, eyed them unsmilingly and snapped: "Damages."

"Damages?" Mickey repeated in tones of saintly innocence.

An indeterminate mumble came from behind the tea-towel, and Elaine's head snapped round in the direction of her hapless spouse. "And you can shut up, you great wally. You never learn, do you? _"Don't worry, love, it's just a favour for a mate…"_

Sean and Mickey exchanged wincing glances at the accuracy of the impression.

Mrs Bishop held out her hand and pinned them with her glare. "Damages."

* * *

Eddie's Bar was the scene of the post-match analysis, and several restoratives had been downed in fairly short order.

"She shook you down for an extra three hundred and fifty?" demanded Albert incredulously.

"We're lucky it wasn't more," Mickey replied with feeling. "That was all we had between us."

"I thought she was going to grab us by the ears and haul us off to the cashpoint!" Sean chimed in. "That was one scary lady!"

They both looked accusingly at Ash, who was grinning with undisguised glee from his place at the back of the booth. "Better her than Pitbull Forgan, I can tell you. Blimey, he's a miserable sod. I thought a few drinks might smooth the way a bit – trust the ugly little bugger to be an angry drunk!"

"He's pretty much an angry everything," Albert remarked, amused. "You have my sympathies, Ash. He's not an easy fish to land."

"Yeah, well, we're moving along the right lines, one way or the other." Ash leaned forward and fiddled with his beer-mat. "He's decided I'm a well-meaning amateur who needs the benefit of his worldly wisdom, so with a bit of luck I should be able to throw him a tip-off in the next couple of days."

All eyes turned covertly to the bar where Emma sat alone, brooding over a shot glass.

"Are we sure?" Mickey asked.

"She's got the talent," Sean said loyally.

"And the guts," added Ash.

"Okay." Mickey rose to his feet and gestured for Sean and Ash to accompany him. "Time we weren't here."

They got up from the table and headed for the door, Sean waving goodbye to Eddie as they departed. Albert, left alone, finished the last of his drink at a leisurely pace and then he too rose to his feet. Casually he strolled across in the direction of the bar.


	6. Chapter 6

**Another big gap - sorry!**

**This is a quiet chapter before the big stuff starts rolling; it's also the most Ash-lite chapter I've ever written - but don't despair, he gets hi very own sub-plot soon!**

**I can't promise anything but will try to be much quicker wuith updates from now on - thanks for your patience, folks**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 6**

"Can I get you anything, Emma?" Eddie was being solicitous. "Drink? Bowl of olives? Bag of crisps?"

Emma shook her head, staring into space. "No thanks, Eddie."

"Suit yourself. Give us a whistle if you need me." The barman retreated to his newspaper with a faint air of wounded dignity.

Add one more to the list of people she'd irritated, Emma thought gloomily. Since her impassioned outburst an awkward atmosphere had persisted among the crew. Mickey had been avoiding her and she felt like a sulky teenager; too proud to apologise and too embarrassed to put it all behind her. She had no idea how to break the ice.

Her reverie was interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Albert at her elbow. "All alone?" he enquired rhetorically.

"I'm not very good company at the moment."

Undeterred, the senior grifter settled himself on the bar-stool beside her. "Moping doesn't suit you."

"I've made a total arse of myself." Emma stared at the table, painfully aware of the petulant tone in her voice. "I'm entitled to mope."

"For a while, maybe." Albert signalled Eddie in a practiced manner and the sounds of clinking glass and pouring liquid began to issue from further along the bar. "But perhaps it's been long enough."

"Mickey's not speaking to me…"

"…because he feels he's let you down!" Albert cut in, slightly exasperated. "He wants to go in there and spirit Alise to safety just as much as you do, _but…_" up came a silencing forefinger as Emma opened her mouth to interrupt "…he knows it's just not possible right now. Thanks, Eddie," he added as two drinks appeared in front of them.

Eddie looked at Emma's downcast expression. "Pork scratchings?" he offered hopefully. Emma's lips twitched; her sense of the ridiculous finally over-rode her sulk and a bubble of laughter escaped her, rapidly developing into a fit of slightly hysterical giggling. Eddie, thoroughly confused, blinked at Albert. "What did I say?"

"Don't worry about it." Albert patted his forearm in a fatherly manner as Emma groped for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "Put it down to natural talent."

"Er – okay!" Pleased, if bemused, Eddie returned to his paper.

Albert swallowed his whisky whilst Emma regained her self-control. "Okay now?" he asked her. On receiving a nod, he rose to his feet. "We need to talk," he said firmly. "In private. I'll see you back at the hotel in an hour. Cheers, Eddie." Putting his glass down on the bar he left without a backward glance, leaving Emma staring after him.

* * *

An hour later found Emma sitting nervously on the edge of the sofa in the unnaturally silent living-area of their suite. It was early evening, a time which usually saw all of them gathered together to compare notes on the day, but tonight events – or, more likely, Albert – had conspired to leave Emma alone.

Sean was finishing the final details of dressing the converted house and for some inexplicable reason had not only needed to go over there but had equally inexplicably needed to take Mickey with him.

Ash had quietly disappeared some time before, which probably meant that he was visiting his ex-wife in her nursing home. He never discussed June with the others, but Mickey seemed to acquire information by some sort of osmosis and kept them discreetly up-to-date, which was how Emma knew that June was the reason Ash had returned from America and that the bulk of his earnings from their grifts and scams went toward paying the fees for her nursing care. Despite the fact that her condition had steadily worsened to the point where she barely knew who he was, Ash's visits to her had remained regular. Emma felt for them both, and regretted that she'd missed the chance to ever meet June – anyone who could inspire that level of devotion must have been quite a woman.

Shifting her position a little, Emma fidgeted with the tassel on a cushion. It was ridiculous of her to feel as though she were waiting for a job-interview, but she did. When the click of the door signalled Albert's arrival she actually jumped a little in her seat, and her mentor smiled at the sight of her anxious face.

"I'm not here to scold you, Emma," he reassured her, sitting down beside her and loosening his tie. "We're concerned about you – all of us." His slight emphasis on the word "all" was accompanied by a look which brooked no argument. "You've been trying to carry too much alone on this con – you can't isolate yourself this way. It's affecting your judgement."

Emma looked away, feeling foolish, and Albert laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "Everyone makes mistakes," he said gently when she turned back to look at him. "They're not important. What's important is that you learn from them, put them behind you and move forward. I sound like a life-coach," he added, "but it's true."

Emma sighed in dejection. "Right from Day One you've told me not to get emotionally involved, keep it all at arm's length and businesslike. And what am I doing? Acting like a rank amateur - no, worse – acting like a total idiot, having a hissy fit when no-one will agree with me…"

"…because," Albert interjected firmly over the rising tone of her voice, "you can see in Alise the girl you might have been." As she stared at him in mute astonishment his voice softened. "There's no great mystery to that, my dear. And no shame in it, either. A little compassion is what helps to set us apart from the more commonplace criminal element. Which brings me on to what I wanted to tell you."

He settled himself more comfortably in his seat and Emma, recognising the signs of an approaching anecdote, did likewise, hugging her cushion comfortingly to her chest. "Is there a moral?" she asked daringly.

He chuckled. "I certainly hope so. This isn't a story I care to share with the wider world too often; I'm hoping my sacrifice won't be in vain. I'd be just a little older than you are now when this happened; right at the start of my career…

… _full of his own importance and convinced of his invincibility, he'd moved on from ripping off casinos and gone into partnership with a dip called Winters to run short cons. They worked their way around the States for a while, moving on when they'd made somewhere too hot to hold them, and eventually hooked up with a crew who had a real-estate scam running and were looking for extra bodies._

_This was a big step up in terms of scale and ambition – the new outfit had phone numbers, professional-looking profiles, keys to properties, a string of temporary offices… and all this without actually owning a single brick. They would turn up in a town, steal the keys to a range of likely-looking homes, have them copied and return them. Then they would go round estate agents placing the properties they didn't own on the market, arrange viewings for when the houses were unoccupied, take the deposits from the potential buyers and then disappear, all in the space of a few days. _

"Nice scam." Emma nodded her head judicially.

"Clever scam," he corrected her. "Maybe not so nice."

_For a few weeks he lined his pockets and felt smug. He was a good-looking guy with a salesman's patter and between them he and Winter could sell the same house twice on occasion. His suits became sharper and his tongue smoother with every passing day – and then the Williams family crossed his path._

_Until that point Albert had mostly been schmoozing estate agents while the more experienced Winters had shown hopeful purchasers round the houses; Albert's work on the properties themselves had been behind the scenes and his "clients" had been mere voices on the phone. On this occasion, however, Winters was booked in already and the crew's leader had sent Albert out on his first solo field job._

_Lorna and David Williams were young and sweet-natured; their little boy, who they brought with them to view the property, was delightful. Albert watched their excited faces as they toured the house that wasn't his to sell, and even as he talked up a storm, keeping one eye on the driveway and the other on the clock to be sure the owners wouldn't return unexpectedly and catch him in the act, he knew he couldn't take a cent of the Williams' money. At the end of their viewing he saw them out courteously, gave the boy a chocolate bar, waved them on their way – and then phoned the estate agent they were headed for and confessed the whole scam, telling the agents on no account were they to accept the Williams' deposit. _

Emma gaped at him, open-mouthed. "You grassed yourself up?"

Albert gave a tiny, slightly embarrassed shrug. "I got emotionally involved, I let my heart rule my head, and I did the right thing. In retrospect, I could have been smarter."

"What happened?" Emma wanted to know.

He chuckled ruefully. "The agents rang the cops and turned me in. I suppose I thought – so far as I thought anything – that maybe they'd appreciate my honesty enough to turn their backs and let me walk away. But, on balance, that was never going to happen. So you see, my dear, you're not the only grifter ever to be a little foolish in the grip of compassion. And I'm not sorry that I felt that way," he added. "After that little escapade I vowed I'd never take money from folks who couldn't afford to lose it again. It's not wrong to feel compassion, Emma – but it's always a mistake not to be smart."

"Is that the moral?" asked Emma meekly.

"I have a little more to tell." Albert clasped his hands, his eyes thoughtful. "You see, it wasn't just me who went down that day. the cops followed the trail back and picked up Winter and half of the rest of the crew." He watched her reaction as she realised the implications of what he was saying. "If I'd stopped and thought it through I'd have realised that's what would happen. There were any number of ways I could have protected the Williamses. _I__f_ I'd stepped back and thought it through_…_ but I didn't."

"Lucky I've got people to do that for me." Emma's mind was whirling with images of what might have happened if Mickey had let her have her way. She'd been so sure she was in the right, and in her certainty she'd been prepared to risk her friends. Ironic that one day she could be terrified at the thought of the crew's future separation, and the next she might have been the agent of their destruction.

His eyes filled with understanding, Albert laid a hand on her shoulder once more. "Talk to us," he urged. "Share your worries, let us help you through them. If you let things fester, sooner or later they'll affect your judgement and you'll take a wrong step." He smiled encouragingly. "And trust Michael," he went on. "He's the best at what he does – the best I've ever known. He'll pull it all together, you'll see."

Emma gave a deep sigh. "I'm not good at sharing," she confessed wryly.

"I'll let you into a secret," Albert's eyes twinkled. "Nor am I. But it's one of the lessons I've had to learn over and over again. Families – and be assured, my dear, we are your family – pull together. Now…" he continued in a lighter tone, "in return for my fatherly advice, would you care to keep me company in the casino tonight?" He rose, straightened his tie and extended a gallant hand.

Emma, looking brighter than she had for several days, stood up and linked her arm through his. "I'd be delighted," she replied, "just so long as you don't expect me to distract anyone while you rig the deck."

"No, no!" he protested. "Tonight is all above-board and honest."

She laughed. "I've only got your word for that, Albert!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Had Emma but known it, Mickey Bricks was almost as on edge as she was; he was simply better at concealing it. He had faith in his team's ability to pull off any job they tackled, this one included, but he had never been good at stepping back and relinquishing control and this was exactly what the odd circumstances surrounding the Forgan con were requiring him to do. The plan was his, and he was confident that it was practicable, but instead of being the inside man at the centre of the game he had found himself pushed into a supporting role, unable to wield any real influence at the crucial points. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that the crew were all experienced, that all eventualities were covered and that everything would run smoothly, he found himself constantly checking and re-checking the set-up in his mind, fretting over every point which allowed for variables and worrying anew that there was something he hadn't allowed for.

The one mercy in all of this was that the role he'd allocated himself, that of Emma's overly-territorial pimp, meant that he could spend a great deal of his time watching over her and glaring threateningly at any man foolish enough to look as though he were thinking of overstepping the mark. And tonight would bring him to a turning point; up until now he'd had no direct contact with Billy Forgan, relying on accounts from Albert and Ash to inform his own image of the man they were dealing with. Now, he would finally get the chance to speak to his quarry face-to-face and fill in any blanks in his picture of Forgan's persona.

He watched Emma as she moved around the bar, chatting and flirting and expertly keeping her admirers fascinated without actually letting them through her guard. She had seemed much happier since her talk with Albert, and she and Mickey had returned to their complicated dance around their feelings. He had missed it, Mickey admitted to himself, and he was thankful for Albert's skills as a mentor. More relaxed than Mickey (though to be fair there were coiled springs more relaxed than Mickey), Albert's greatest skill as a leader had always been in knowing when to step back – a skill which, Mickey reflected, he himself had yet to acquire.

The door to the street swung open to admit Ash, in his pony-tail and biker's gear, with Billy Forgan stumping alongside him. Reaching inside his jacket Mickey turned on the receiver for the earpiece Ash had provided for him. The men were heading toward Emma, and Mickey would need to hear Forgan's reactions to their initial approach in order to know how he himself should play the second stage. The fact that it also helped him to keep a closer watch over Emma was not incidental, but he told himself that this was simply a happy coincidence.

"Bugger me backwards!" he heard Forgan exclaim as the receiver tuned in. "When ye said ye had a contact who could put some business my way I expected some fat sweaty biker!" Mickey watched with distaste as Forgan's gaze lingered appreciatively on Emma, who was chatting with a group of young men at another table, apparently oblivious to Ash and Forgan standing a few feet behind her. "Bit out of your league, ain't she, Oz?"

Mickey smiled behind his hand, remembering the conversation that had taken place when that subject came up.

"_Something just occurred to me," Sean had said as they sat around the table putting the finishing touches to the plan. Everyone looked at him. "Ash is going to introduce Forgan to Emma, yeah? And Emma's playing the part of an expensive hooker..."_

"_...an escort..." put in Emma, firmly._

"_Okay, an 'escort', then." Sean rolled his eyes at his sister for the interruption and resumed. "So – and please don't take this the wrong way, Ash, but - what happens when Forgan asks how a bloke like you knows a bird like her?"_

_Ash made a noise that sounded suspiciously like "Pfffft!" and Emma said "SEAN!" in a "for crying out loud little brother" voice. Albert chuckled, but then said: "Actually, he does have a point, Ash. The character we've created for you isn't the kind of guy who'd be able to afford a high-class – um – escort."_

"_Oh, purrlease!" snorted Ash._

"_Look, Ash, we're not saying that I... that we... that..." Emma looked in desperation at Mickey, who took pity on her and stepped in._

"_Why don't we say that she's the sister of an old friend who's had to leave the country and you promised him you'd keep an eye on her?"_

_Ash thought it over and shrugged his assent. "At least you didn't say "daughter"..."_

In the end the scenario had been modified to have Oz's old friend meeting a tragic end in a motorcycling accident which Oz had survived by a lucky chance, and after this momentous event he'd felt obliged to keep an eye on the surviving sibling. Ash was recounting this sorry tale to Forgan as they sat down at a table not far from where Emma was working.

"I suppose she's good-looking, if you like the type," Ash was saying now, forcing Mickey to briefly bow his head to hide the fact that he was stifling a tremor of laughter. "Never really thought about her that way, her brother being a mate and all."

"What sort of man lets his sister work as a hooker?" Forgan's tone was filled with hypocritical distaste for Oz's fictitious deceased friend.

"Don't let her hear you calling her a hooker!" Ash reproved. "She prefers "escort". And he didn't let her do anything. She didn't deal with his death well – got into drugs, had a pretty bad patch. But she's bouncing back, wants to set up her own business, and I'd like to give her a leg-up; but I don't have any capital. That's when I thought of you."

Forgan leaned back in his chair and ran his eyes over Emma in the manner of a farmer sizing stock at an auction. "Okay," he said. "I like what I've seen so far. I'll hear what she's got to say."

"That's great, mate!" Ash beamed, and then raised his voice to bellow enthusiastically: "Oi, Chrissie – over here, babe!"

"Shut up, ye great lummox!" Exasperated, Forgan grabbed Ash's waving arm and spoke in a vicious whisper. "We don't need the whole damn place knowing we're having a chat!"

"Oh yeah – sorry, Billy," Ash said meekly as Emma headed in their direction.

"Oz!" she exclaimed, bending to give Ash a kiss on the cheek. "Shout a bit louder, can't you? There's five people in Birmingham who didn't quite hear you that last time."

"Sorry, Chrissie," Ash said even more meekly. "This is my mate Billy Forgan. I think he can help you out with your..."

"Shhhhh!" Emma placed a hasty finger on his lips, smiling a hello at Forgan. "Roscoe's in tonight, I'm supposed to be doing some meet and greet for him." She glanced over her shoulder in Mickey's direction, then spoke to Forgan. "I'd love to talk, but I need to be careful." With a tilt of her head she indicated the booth where Mickey sat watching them through narrowed eyes.

"So that's how it is, is it?" Forgan looked from Emma to Mickey and seemed to come to a decision. "Wait here."

Pushing back his chair he headed toward Mickey, every line of his stocky frame issuing a challenge. Mickey watched him cross the room and felt a tingle of anticipation.

"You Roscoe?" barked Forgan, stopping in front of Mickey's table.

Mickey looked him up and down. "Who want to know?" he drawled, gangsta to his fingertips.

"Someone with enough money not to have to answer your questions." Forgan sat down in the chair opposite without waiting for an invitation.

"What make you think I'm interested in your money, boy?" Mickey leaned back. _Let's see what happens when you get riled,_ he thought.

"Don't give me that. We're in the same business, you and me – except I could buy you ten times over. And don't insult my intelligence by pretending you don't know what I'm talking about." Forgan jerked his head in Emma's direction. "I want her. How much?"

_You go on the attack. Hands up who didn't see that coming._ Mickey sucked his teeth. "Nah. She working. She can pick up three, four good clients tonight. I'm not doing no exclusives."

"My money not good enough for ye?"

"I only got your word this money even exists."

Reaching inside his jacket, Forgan produced a folded wad of cash. "Five grand, flat down here and now."

"For the _evenin'_?" Mickey's voice was a study in incredulity. "You think I hatch from an egg, boy? Ten."

"You got a lot of confidence in one bit of skirt, there." Another roll of notes appeared beside the first in Forgan's hand. "Seven five."

"Blow it out your ass, boy. You think you impress me, waving your stash around the place? Ten, _if_ you got it, or go home on your own." _Just how reckless do you get when you're pissed off?_

"You want to watch that mouth, son," snapped Forgan. If he'd been the pit-bull terrier Ash had accurately likened him to his hackles would have been well up by now.

_Not that reckless, then... _"I don't need to watch nothin'." Mickey leaned forward a little and dropped his voice to a purr. "I got good merchandise. If she picks up three guys tonight, I get nine grand. Four gets me twelve. You pay the rate, or you don't get the package. That ain't personal, it's business."

Forgan's flashed his teeth in a smile that was half snarl. "Nine, then. Reckon I'm worth three of your... punters." A contemptuous jerk of his head indicated the rest of the bar's clientele.

"Maybe you are, at that." Mickey held out his hand. "You got yourself a deal, boy." Taking the money he counted it expertly and then leaned forward a little. "Any damage, I take what's due to me, you understand?"

Forgan stood up without reply and headed back toward Emma and Ash. "C'mon," he snapped. "We're out of here."

Mickey watched without moving until they were out of sight, and then rose unhurriedly, walked to the door and leaned on the frame to look out into the night. A little distance down the street he could see the unmistakeable outline of Ash's broad shoulders hovering protectively beside the equally unmistakeable silhouette of Emma, Forgan close behind them. He didn't need to follow them straight away; the venue for their meeting was already pre-arranged with Ash and if there were any change the fixer-turned-roper would let him know.

So. Up himself – check. Misogynist – check. Likes to think he's a hard guy - check. Shrewd... up to a point. Mickey had the feeling that if Forgan were pushed too hard he'd either make a stupid mistake or become very dangerous indeed. It would be interesting, if more than a little risky, to find out which.

"... so there it is," Emma concluded, twirling her empty glass in her fingers. "I'm getting out from under Roscoe. It's always the same – he wants to control every move I make, and I've had enough." She looked up at Forgan through lowered eyelashes.

"No good making eyes at me, girl." Forgan's tone was dismissive. "Nothing in it for me if I give you cash. Ye'll be off into the distance with me money before I even feel the knife in me ribs."

"Why, Billy, what a thing to say!" Emma grinned lazily, and then became more businesslike. "It's not cash I need from you. It's personnel." She glanced at him to assess the impact of her words and he gestured for her to continue. "I know who you are, and I know you've got contacts," she said. "When Oz told me you'd helped him out with the bike I thought you sounded like the sort of guy I could do business with."

"I'm listening." Forgan folded his arms and sat back in his seat.

"I want in on your next shipment," Emma said, lowering her voice a little. "I can't pay you," she went on quickly, "so I won't insult your intelligence by pretending I can – but in return you become a sleeping partner in the business. I pay you a percentage – we can negotiate that – and in return you keep me supplied with girls."

This was the moment. Both Ash and Emma held their breaths, and at the other end of the transmitter's signal Mickey was doing the same. If Emma had handled Forgan right, he'd jump in. If she'd got him wrong, he'd walk away.

"I want to see your premises," Forgan said at last. Three soundless sighs of relief troubled the air around him, un-noticed. "If I like what I see, we'll talk more."

"No problem." Emma answered with easy confidence. "We'll meet you here tomorrow night and take you there."

"No time like the present." Forgan rose to his feet and signalled to the waiter for their bill. "If you can take me tomorrow, you can take me now."

Mickey stepped back into a doorway as they passed him, then blended into the crowd to follow at a safe distance, rummaging in his pocket for his phone to contact Albert and alert him and Sean to the slight change in their plans. He wasn't entirely comfortable with Forgan setting the pace, but the house was ready and Ash was sticking to Emma like glue. Mickey was prepared to concede a little ground at this point if it would achieve their ultimate objective. Phone to his ear he followed along the pavement, shadowing his friends and their quarry through the London night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Breakfast time the next morning found the crew satisfied, if a little weary from what had turned out to be a very late night.

Mickey's phone-call to Albert had led to that worthy arriving on Mrs Carmen's doorstep bearing a bunch of flowers, a pair of tickets for a box at the Theatre Royal and a bottle of very good wine, and Albert had proceeded to take his companion out for a top-class night on the town. Having delivered her safely to her home just after midnight he'd decided that the night was yet young, found himself a poker game, and come in through the door of their suite as dawn was breaking. He now sat nursing a very strong cup of black coffee and looking a little frayed around the edges.

Emma and Mickey, who were sharing a plate of croissants and a pot of less lethal coffee with Sean, were mutually relieved that the first hurdle had been jumped and Forgan was safely roped into the con. There had been one dodgy moment during the evening when Forgan had begun giving strong indications to Ash that he might like to disappear and leave Emma alone with the Irishman, but Ash had exercised all of Ozzy's guileless charm and stubbornly refused to take the hint. Otherwise all had gone smoothly. So far as they could tell from his demeanour, which seemed to be on a sliding scale from mildly irritable to downright psychopathic, Forgan had been impressed by what he'd seen at the house and had agreed to contact Emma and let her know when his next 'delivery' was due.

Ash spurned breakfasts in top-end hotels on the basis that they were a bit suspect; his sartorial style might have improved over the years he'd spent with the crew, but Albert still despaired of his palate. The fixer had never quite recovered from the shock of once receiving his much-anticipated full English in the shape of four arty fiddly little towers of food surrounded by a dribble of ketchup around the edge of a huge white plate, and was in the habit of going out for a McMuffin if there wasn't a greasy spoon caff in the vicinity. He was currently dividing his attention between a stack of books and his laptop, with occasional glances at the mobile phone which lay on the desk near his right hand. With his left hand he was gradually demolishing a stack of toast and a mug of builder's tea.

Albert drained the dregs of his coffee and looked across at Mickey and Emma. "So – now that I'm halfway human again – how did it go last night?"

Mickey nodded. "Pretty much by the book," he said. "We're ready to move things forward... Ash, are you going over to the docks this morning?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd get that end of things straight as fast as possible. Which means, Sean's about to do things by the book too..." Ash held up one of the volumes he'd been perusing and grinned at Sean's groan of distaste; of all the new skills the rookie grifter was picking up he found absorbing new languages and perfecting accents one of the most challenging. "No, come on, you'll love this one! It's a real page-turner!"

"I'm still eating," Sean protested, but when all he got by way of reply was Ash waggling the book at him with one hand and demonstrating how to take a huge bite of toast with the other he sighed and capitulated, moving his plate and cup across to Ash's table. Ash passed him a pair of headphones and Sean sighed again. "Here we go: _Listen and repeat... the cat...is on... the table..._"

"Look on the bright side," Emma told him. "Listening to the bloke on the CD who issues the instructions is doing wonders for your American accent if nothing else. If you ever get bored with the grifting life you could go and do voiceovers for movies." Sean, who had put on the headphones, made an elaborate "Sorry, can't hear a word you're saying" pantomime, chewing a mouthful of croissant. His sister threw him a mock-despairing look and turned to speak to Albert. "Are we still going prison visiting?" she asked.

"Indeed we are." Albert rose to his feet and stretched carefully. "In fact, I'd better freshen up if we're not going to be late."

Stacking his dirty crockery neatly on the room-service trolley, Mickey glanced up. "You're certain this is wise, Albert? We know Forgan has eyes and ears among the clientele in there – that's how Janis Balodis ended up being transferred back into a Category B establishment."

"If Emma's going to continue to convince Forgan that she is who she says she is, then she needs all the background information she can get on the smuggling trade," Albert said, imperturbably. "And before you say it – yes, you and I could go alone, but the risks would be no less and there's no substitute for the horse's mouth. You know that."

"Forgan's got nothing to link me to Balodis anyway," Emma pointed out with irrefutable logic. "There's no reason he'd have his grasses looking out for me in the prison, is there? I wouldn't be at all surprised to find out he had someone lurking around the pub trying to get a chat with some of the girls, but why would he think I'd be within twenty miles of Evesham nick?"

"Points to the lady, I believe," Albert remarked as he departed in the direction of his bedroom.

Mickey had the grace to appear slightly abashed. "I sound like a stuck record, don't I?"

"You do," Emma agreed. "Honestly, Mickey – it's fine so far. I've promised Albert I won't keep it to myself if I feel there's anything I can't handle. Forgan doesn't scare me, OK?"

Mickey smiled at her. "OK. I'll back off," he promised, but there was a shadow in his eyes as he turned away to collect his own gear together. _Forgan doesn't scare me... _Emma's cheery reassurance had worried him more than ever. He wished the strain between them was more distant so that he could speak his mind more openly. To preserve the peace and encourage Emma's positive state of mind he would keep his counsel, despite the riposte ringing through his brain: _Forgan doesn't scare you? He should, Emma. You should be very scared._

"Why can't I do some of the talking?" Sean wanted to know.

Ash, absorbed in thumbing through the menus on his mobile phone, didn't even turn his head. "Cos your accent's crap!"

"That's not fair!" Sean protested, flinching as a vicious little gust of wind found its way through his coat and raised goosepimples under his fleece. "It's not as bad as all that. And anyway, it won't get any better if I don't practice on real people, will it?"

With a few decisive jabs at the screen Ash ended his business with his phone and tucked it away in the hip pocket of his jeans before buttoning his long black greatcoat securely over the top. "Look, you don't _need_ to say anything this time, so let's not chance our arm. I've got a contact I can talk to; all you need to do for now is look a bit dangerous and sneer a lot. Which shouldn't be difficult in this weather..." He drew a dark-grey scarf from his pocket and wound it round his neck as he spoke, tucking the ends inside the front of the coat, and then drew a packet of tobacco and one of Rizlas from his other pocket and commenced rolling himself a cigarette.

"Thought you hadn't smoked for ages."

"Off and on," Ash said, sounding the tiniest bit defensive. "At the moment it's more on than off. And a few ounces of baccy can get you nearly as far on the docks as it can in prison." He broke off to apply his lighter to the end of the roll-up and inhale deeply before putting the paraphernalia away and setting off again at a brisk walk, Sean striding out alongside him and attempting to look as dangerous as he could when he felt as though his fingers and toes might be about to drop off.

Jorgen, Ash's contact, didn't appear to be any warmer or happier than they were. A tall, mournful-faced German, he was standing by a stack of plastic-wrapped pallets engaged in scratching away on a clipboard with a pen. When he saw them approaching he abandoned all three without hesitation, motioning them to follow him into a porta-cabin which served as some sort of office. "It's been a while," he remarked as the door closed behind them.

"I've been moving around a lot." Ash had pretty much perfected his Dutch accent a few years ago, and coupled with his reddish hair and blue eyes it made a useful cover for dealing with contacts who hailed from northern European countries. "Things got a bit warm for me here. Speaking of which..." he eyed the kettle in the corner pointedly.

"Who's your friend?" Jorgen asked, ignoring the hint.

"Vassily Dumenko," Sean said in his newly-learned Ukranian accent before Ash could open his mouth.

"He doesn't speak a lot of English," Ash added firmly, moving to put the kybosh on any more plans Sean might have to get in a bit of practice, "But he's interested in contacting Billy Forgan's supplier."

The German rubbed his long nose with the back of his hand and sniffed. "I heard that supply chain got interrupted."

"And _we_ heard there was a captain who'd be interested in working with the right people to get things moving again." Ash nipped out the last third of his cigarette, picked up the kettle and peered at the gauge on the side. "But if you don't know who he is I can find another way to him."

"I didn't say that." Jorgen reclaimed the kettle with a resigned air, plugged it in and turned it on. "But I don't care to be too much associated with these people." He rummaged out three mugs, wiping them clean with a hunk of paper towel, and as the kettle came to the boil he dropped teabags into the mugs and produced a large jar of sugar. "This is different for you, too, I think. Tobacco and beer is a little different to the sort of smuggling Forgan does."

Ash shrugged. "I got into a bad position with some... people." With a sideways jerk of his head and a rueful twist to his mouth he managed to imply that Sean/Vassily was some kind of Russian gangster. Sean gave what he hoped was a steely smile as Ash continued: "I'm hoping to put Vassily here in touch with the right people and pay off some of my debt."

Jorgen handed Ash a mug and indicated to Sean that he should take one also. "So, this is a favour?"

"I have money I can pay," Sean said. "If information is correct." He could practically feel Ash's furious thought-waves beating against his skull.

"With respect," Jorgen had the manner of a man choosing his words with care, "I'm not sure that I have a great desire to take your money. I don't wish to work with you."

"This would be strictly a one-time agreement," Ash interrupted smoothly. "I'm the only one who would be dealing directly with you. We've known each other a long time, Jorgen – when did I ever put you wrong?"

Jorgen drank his tea without speaking for some moments whilst the two hustlers waited. Sean felt a heady mixture of trepidation and excitement – he knew he'd way overstepped the mark Ash had laid down for him and was in for a proper roasting when they got back to home turf. But if Jorgen went for it, then Sean would feel vindicated. He wasn't often asked to play against type and up until now most of his roles in their cons had been as fresh-faced, enthusiastic youngsters. To convince an old hand like Jorgen that he was an East European gangster would be a feather in his cap, no matter how much Ash bent his ear about playing it safe.

"I can give you the name you want," Jorgen said at last to Ash. "But you pay me, not him..." he jerked his head to indicate Sean "...and my name is not mentioned in any future conversation. I don't wish to be indelicate, but you will remember please that I have contacts of my own. If I find that I am compromised in any way by this conversation then I will ensure that in the future you will be unable to father children. We are clear?"

"Perfectly." Ash gave a wry smile as he produced Jorgen's payment from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. "I'm hoping very much that this will be the end of the matter for us both."

With practiced skill Jorgen riffled the notes with his long, stained fingers. Nodding to himself as the amount was judged adequate he set down his mug and pointed along the quayside. "You want a cargo vessel called _Northern Spirit._ The master's name is Malcolm Linford. And you did not hear this from me."

Jorgen shook hands with Ash, pointedly avoided visual or physical contact with Sean, and saw them off his premises, watching them until they rounded a corner and were blocked from his view.

"You pillock!" Ash snapped, fishing his phone out of his coat and glancing at it before tucking it back out of sight. "What if he'd decided you were too much of a risk and turned us down?"

"It worked out okay." Sean had intended to sound laid-back and experienced, but unfortunately only managed guilty.

"It did," Ash conceded, "But you didn't do my blood-pressure a lot of good. Do me a favour, kid – stick to the script. I ain't as young as I used to be and I can't take too much excitement."

Sean smiled to himself as he trailed his mentor across yet more yards of chilly concrete. He'd convinced Jorgen and got away with only a minor slap on the wrist from Ash; it was looking like a good day today.

"Here we go," Ash announced, stopping suddenly, Sean being forced into a little backward hop to avoid treading on his heels.

They stared up at the towering side of the vessel and the stacks of containers crowded along its deck. Sean's self-satisfaction drained away as he imagined what it must be like to be stuck inside one of those things – pitch black, no air, squashed in among the cargo, thinking that at least soon you'd be out and free to try and make a fresh start for yourself. And then, instead of the anticipated new life, to find yourself surrounded by Billy Forgan's heavies and being intimidated into sacrificing your dignity and your freedom.

To judge from the bleak look in Ash's eyes he was thinking along the same lines. "Well, we know where she is and we've got the name we need. Let's get back and pass the information on to Billy Forgan."

Sean looked at Ash. Now that the moment was here he felt vaguely nauseous. Ash nodded at the phone. "Go on," he urged. "You were the one who was Mr Confident down at the docks, so don't go all coy on me now!"

Licking dry lips, Sean lifted the receiver and punched in Forgan's number, reading the digits off Ash's mobile which lay on the table nearby. There were two or three rings at the other end and he began to think that Forgan wouldn't answer. Then the faint "bip!" of a connection being made, and the rough, low voice with its distinctive Belfast accent: "Hello?"

"Mr Forgan?" _So far, so good,_ Sean thought. He'd got the accent okay and he hadn't done any nervous squeaking.

"Who wants to know?"

"It is good to finally speak to you directly. My name is Vassily Dumenko." He paused to allow Forgan to take in the name and got an affirmative grunt from the other end of the line. "I understand you've been having some supply problems of late, and I believe that I can solve them for you. I have a name for you to contact. I believe we could make an arrangement which would be of benefit to us both."

"_You want me to be __**who**__?" Sean had asked a few days before, somewhat taken aback at the idea._

"_Vassily Dumenko," repeated Albert. "That's the name of Balodis's main contact in Eastern Europe."_

"_So why would Billy Forgan mistake me for a Russian bloke?"_

"_Ukranian," Albert corrected in his imperturbable way. "Dumenko has been on Forgan's payroll for a number of years, but they've never spoken to each other directly and Dumenko's never left the Ukraine."_

"_And," put in Mickey, "Forgan's looking for a new supplier with Janis out of the game. It's entirely plausible that Dumenko would put himself forward as the new front-runner. Which means..." he gestured to Ash who produced a thick Russian/English dictionary and a stack of assorted books and CD's with a flourish "... that you get to learn to be a convincing Russian-speaker."_

_Sean stared at the books. "Wow," he said insincerely. "Thanks."_

"_And don't worry," Albert added, his eyes twinkling. "We'll keep our ears to the ground and make sure that the real Dumenko doesn't show up over here and try to queer your pitch."_

"_You're really selling this to me, guys. It just gets better and better."_

"If you doubt that I am who I say I am," Sean went on, smoothly, "let me give you the name I have and you will see that my information is good. I will call you back and we will then discuss terms."

A short silence. "Sounds fair," Forgan said at last. "Give me the information; call me back in two hours. If you're straight we can work from there."

"The man you want is called Malcolm Linford. His vessel is _Northern Spirit_. I shall call you at two-thirty pm, Mr Forgan, and I look forward to our future association." Sean waited for another grunt and then gently replaced the receiver and looked across at Ash who'd been listening in silence on the speaker-phone.

His friend nodded. "Good job, kid. Forgan likes to work with people he knows, so if he thinks you're Dumenko we're onto a dead cert. And your accent wasn't that bad this time..."

Ash broke off and Sean glanced down in surprise as the mobile phone on the table began to ring. Ash crossed the room in two quick strides and grabbed up the phone. "I need to take this," he said, and disappeared onto the balcony, a chilly blast of air gusting into the room as he opened the french window. Seconds later he was back, snatching up his coat and scarf from the chair and pulling them on as he headed for the door.

"Ash?" Sean, thoroughly confused at this abrupt turn of events, had taken a few seconds to rediscover the power of speech. "Where are you going?"

"Out." The door banged open, then shut. Ash didn't look back.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Note: This chapter is the core of the story and in terms of the initial thinking I did it was the starting point - everything else grew around it. It has its origins in a short fic by my good friend and fellow-devotee penfold, aka Molly Hunt; so to penfold for her inspiration go my thanks. Also, the theme of this chapter and the ones that immediately follow is pretty heavy as Hustle goes; it picks up a storyline from the first (probably the grittiest) series which was never resolved and which I felt needed tying up. I've tried to do it in character, but it does mean that this tale is going to be a few shades darker for a spell and if you like your Hustle light and fluffy I apologise.**_

_**I'd welcome reviews especially for this chapter and those which follow - if you read on, please let me know what you think.**_

_**Handy**_

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* * *

****Chapter 9**

"Is it acceptable to find a sex-slave trafficker a nice guy?" Emma asked, as she climbed into the taxi.

Albert, who had preceded her and was settling himself into his seat, gave a short, wry laugh. "I've known folk do some pretty bad things who were nice guys," he said. "We do some pretty bad things ourselves from time to time."

"I don't recall the last time we lured someone to a foreign country under false pretences and set them to work in a brothel, though."

Mickey closed the door behind them and leaned forward to give their destination to the driver before sitting down. "Janis _is_ a nice guy. He's bright, he's funny... and I think he's basically honest. I have the feeling that he got into the criminal world deeper than he meant to, and then couldn't get out." He looked across at Emma knowingly. "It's not unknown for headstrong young people to embark on a foolish course of action and not realise where they're going till it's too late."

"...unless someone older and wiser comes along to save them from themselves," Emma added, smiling at Albert. "Thinking of mentoring another student, Albert?"

The senior grifter shrugged self-deprecatingly. "For what it's worth, I think his regret for his past, and his desire for a fresh start, are genuine," he said. "He's learning a hard lesson about loyalty and trust."

"Well, he gave us plenty of essential information," Mickey said. "And once we get her away from Forgan we can keep an eye on Alise till Janis gets out. She'll be perfectly safe with..." he broke off as Emma's mobile sounded in her bag.

"Just a text," Emma peered at the caller display. "Sean... probably wanting to know what time we'll be back so he can get a break from his Russian studies..." She pressed the button to display the text and then frowned. "This is a bit weird. He wants to know if Ash has tried to ring any of us. Hang on."

As Emma dialled Sean's number, Mickey and Albert both took out their phones, turned them on and checked call logs and message inboxes.

"Sean, is that you? Hang on, just slow down. I know - yes, I'll ask." Emma's eyes went from Albert to Mickey in enquiry and both shook their heads. "No, he hasn't tried to ring any of us. Yes, of course I'm sure. What are you on about? Right – look, there'll be some sort of totally feasible explanation. Well of course there will. We'll be back in about ten minutes... yes, see you then." She slowly lowered the phone, an expression of total confusion on her face. "Sean says he's lost Ash."

* * *

By the time they reached the hotel Sean had worked himself up into something approaching a panic. "I can't get him on any of his mobiles," he began, the minute they walked through the door. "I've texted, rung, and e-mailed and he hasn't answered anything. And his bike's not in the garage. I've been and checked."

Emma was about to say something cheerfully comforting and downplay the whole thing when she caught the glance that flashed between Mickey and Albert, and a cold knot of fear suddenly began to form in the pit of her stomach. "What?" she asked immediately. "You two are thinking something – what is it?"

Mickey was looking at the floor and made no answer. Albert said: "It's unlike Ash to leave no word of where he's going..."

"...unless he doesn't want us to know where he's going." Emma finished as realisation struck. And she couldn't think of any good thing which would prompt Ash to feel like that. Understanding didn't make her feel any better and she took hold of Sean's hand.

Mickey's head came up, and he stared intently at Sean. "What happened?" he asked.

Sean blinked, taken aback by the intensity of Mickey's tone. "I've told you what happened," he began.

"No. No, Sean, you haven't." Suddenly Mickey was all leader, every ounce of easy joviality gone from his face and voice. These were the moments when he revealed that he could be as dangerous as any of the prey they hunted, and just as implacable. "You've told us how you feel about what happened, and you've told us what you did after it happened. What you haven't done is give us a clear account of the events _as they happened_, and that is what we need. Okay?"

"Go easy, Mickey," Emma said, feeling her little brother flinching with mortification.

"No, it's fair enough, Emms." Hearing Ash's nickname for her coming from Sean's mouth brought a lump to Emma's throat. Sean looked Mickey in the eye and recited, briskly but steadily: "We went down the docks, followed the drill, everything went straightforward. No problems at all. Came back here, I rang Forgan and told him I was Dumenko. Gave him the information and said I'd call him back in two hours. Which, incidentally..." he glanced at his watch, "...means I'm due to ring him in forty minutes time. Forgan bought the story, Ash was happy with what had been said, we were having a chat and then his mobile went off. He came over and got it, took the call out there..." Sean pointed to the balcony which was now half-obscured by the heavy rain which had begun to fall as they talked. "Then he walked back in, got his coat, left. I asked him what was going on and where he was going; he said 'Out.' That's it."

It wasn't a lot to go on, Emma mused, gloomily. She felt a cloud of guilt beginning to descend upon her. If she hadn't been so set on going ahead with this con, Ash wouldn't have been involved in it at all, let alone as the roper. What could he be protecting them from, she wondered. Forgan? An old comrade of Janis Balodis' who'd realised what they were doing and was demanding a slice of the action? Maybe there had been some sort of undercover police investigation into Forgan's smuggling ring and Ash was in the process of giving himself up to take the heat off the crew? She was moving on to her fourth or fifth scenario, each one worse than the last, when Mickey's voice broke in:

"Where was the phone when it rang?"

The apparent non-sequitur jolted Emma out of her misery and she stared at Mickey in surprise – as did Sean.

"On the table by the laptop," Sean said, his voice as mystified as his face. "I used it to get Forgan's number."

"And when it rang?" Mickey pursued, his dark gaze intent.

"Ash came and got it."

"Did you see the caller display?"

Realising at last where Mickey's train of thought was leading, Emma grabbed her brother's arm tightly.

Sean slapped a hand to his forehead. "I'm an idiot!" he exclaimed. Freeing his arm from Emma's grasp he strode across to the table where Ash habitually worked, ripped a sheet off the notepad and found a pencil. Then he stared down at the surface of the desk, his eyes focussed on infinity. "It was a private number; not a mobile..." he muttered as his total recall facility began to fire into action. "London area code..."

"A private number but no name?" Albert said. "Curious."

All three of the others edged closer to the table, willing Sean to succeed. The young man scowled down at the paper in front of him as though he would force the numbers to appear on it by the power of his mind alone. Hesitantly at first and then with growing certainty his pencil scratched across the paper. He stamped a firm full-stop after the digits and gave the paper to Mickey.

Mickey looked, frowned, passed the paper to Albert. Albert peered at it and shook his head. "Means nothing to me," he said, handing it on to Emma. She looked at the figures, but the sequence was unfamiliar to her as well.

"I'm sure I've seen that number before." Frustrated, Mickey held out his hand for the paper and Emma gave him it back. He stared at it for several seconds. "No, it won't come."

"Try Google." Emma nodded toward Ash's laptop. "We might at least get an address."

Sean's fingers danced across the keyboard and he hit "return" with a slap. They waited. "It's a business number, by the looks of it. There's an address... and a name on this one. _Tall Trees_?"

The effect on Mickey was electric. He snatched the paper from the table and grabbed up the hotel phone, stabbing at the numbers with his fingers in a fever of urgency.

"What's going on?" Emma demanded, bewildered. "Albert..."

The veteran grifter looked strained, his eyes anxious. "_Tall Trees _is the name of the nursing home where June lives."

"Oh God..."

"Hello?" Mickey had made contact. "Is it possible to speak to the nurse assigned to Mrs June Morgan, please? No, I'm a friend. I see. No, I understand. Yes, I will. Thank you." He lowered the phone gently into its rest and turned to face them, his movements suddenly slow and uncertain. "That was the nursing home," he said, unnecessarily, gathering his strength for what he had to say next; the words they needed to hear, though already they knew from his face what was coming. "June's dead."

* * *

The hours that followed were of that unique type which follows bad news; time seems to run and blur into itself and existence becomes a bubble inside which everything has changed, whilst outside the world rolls on, unaltered.

Sean, showing a fortitude which even Emma hadn't counted on, duly rang Billy Forgan back and, finding Forgan convinced by his information, completed the next phase of the con by arranging to call again when he had a new shipment ready. This had bought the crew a breathing-space, as the _Northern Spirit _wasn't due to leave port for a few days.

Albert and Mickey had set out on a visit to the nursing home to speak to one of the staff who Mickey knew slightly – it transpired that he'd been quietly visiting the home, on and off, for the whole of the time June had been resident there. He'd never been in to speak to her in case his presence had confused and upset her, but had kept a quiet eye on proceedings. Mickey had felt that he needed to be in a position to give Ash backup if he should ever need it, knowing that Ash was far too proud to ask, and had judged this the least obtrusive way to go about it. If Ash had realised what he was doing he had never mentioned anything.

On their return they were subdued. No-one at the home had seen Ash. After their call to inform him of June's death from a stroke, the staff had been expecting him to arrive there to discuss paperwork and arrangements. Albert, who was now firmly of the opinion that this was exactly what Ash had gone AWOL to avoid, had stepped into the breach and appointed himself Ash's deputy. Fortunately June had left a letter on her file addressed to Albert and Mickey. She had talked to the staff about her old friends a good deal in the early days of her illness and there were photographs of Albert at the wedding with his arms around Ash and June, all of which the staff were quite happy to take as surety that Albert would see to it that all was done in accordance with June's wishes.

These, as he and Mickey had expected, had been very clearly and firmly expressed in a document she'd drawn up shortly after her accident and had placed in her file in anticipation of just such an occurrence. There was a letter there for Ash, as well as the one addressed to: "Albert Stroller or Michael Stone – in case he drops one on you."

"One hundred percent June Morgan," Albert remarked as he handed the letter to Emma and slumped wearily into a chair. Sean looked over Emma's shoulder as she read:

_Dear Albert, or Mickey, whichever one of you gets this first._

_Sorry you've got landed with a load of hassle. If you're reading this letter it means I've shuffled off and Ash is struggling with it. I know I can trust you two to sort things out and keep an eye on him for me. I'd rather have honest crooks than a crooked solicitor any day of the week._

_Everything's organised and I've left all the paperwork about the funeral plan in the file with the letters._

_Have a couple of stiff ones on me – you're going to deserve them!_

_June xx_

"This was in the envelope," Mickey said, holding up a twenty-pound note.

"Paying for a round from beyond the grave," Albert remarked. "You have to admire her style."

Mickey poured four single malts and handed them round, and they drank a silent toast, each busy with their own thoughts.

Eventually Emma spoke, nursing her glass. "What next?" she asked.

Setting his drink down on the table, Mickey propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face with both hands. "We carry on with the con," he said at last. "There are a few details we'll have to re-work, but we've invested too much into it to back out now."

"What about finding Ash?" Sean wanted to know.

"If Ash doesn't want to be found, we won't find him," Mickey said. "I'm as concerned as you are, Sean," he added hastily, as the younger man opened his mouth to protest, "but believe me, if he's dug himself in deep enough it'll take months to track him down."

"Let me make some enquiries," Albert offered. "Let's not panic yet. He may just walk in through the door of his own accord in a couple of days."

Mickey nodded his agreement, though he was clearly unconvinced and even Albert looked less than positive of success. Both of them remembered Ash's reaction to his decree absolute and whilst a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then the fixer's continued deep attachment to his ex-wife had never faltered. He was unlikely to be dealing with the news of her death any better than he'd dealt with their divorce.

No-one wanted to eat much that night, or to go anywhere, or even to talk. They kept a quiet vigil until the small hours when Albert, Emma and Sean eventually went to their separate rooms. Mickey remained on the sofa, the bottle of Scotch at his elbow, staring wakefully at the dark.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Day One_

No Ash.

They all have far too much time on their hands. No-one wants to go out, in case a call comes. No-one wants to stay in, staring at the walls, waiting for the call that doesn't come. They spend the morning in morose silence, or being miserably irritable with each other.

By halfway through the day they've had enough and depart en masse for Eddie's Bar. Someone will have to break the news to Eddie, anyway. They want to find Ash there, elbow propped on the bar, downing a pint and mercilessly teasing Eddie, and feel his absence all the more keenly when his stool is vacant. An hour or so is spent in listening to Eddie get himself all worked up at the news and in calming him down again.

When peace is restored Albert retires to their booth and takes out his mobile, embarking on a string of calls to various contacts to cast out the net which will watch and listen across London for any sign of Ash.

Mickey sits at his elbow and glowers like a caged eagle, nursing cup after cup of coffee through the afternoon. He never makes notes on paper; the cons he runs, in all their glorious intricacy, are carried in his head. And so he is engaged in mentally redesigning and reorganising the plan for the days to come – Plan A and Plan B, with leeway for plans from C right through to F if he finds he needs the variables.

Emma and Sean set up and knock away game after game of pool, needing something to focus on which is other than the churning mill of their own thoughts.

As afternoon draws to evening Mickey rouses himself from his self-absorption and become aware of the others. "This is no good," he declares, looking round at the group. "Another day of this and we'll all be certifiable. Emma – tomorrow you and I are off to stage a little show for Billy Forgan to make sure that you stay at the forefront of his mind. Albert, Sean – I'm sorry to put this on your shoulders, but someone needs to clear June's room and put her gear in storage. Can you see to it?"

He looks from face to face, seeing their relief at having something concrete to do. He wants to tell them everything will be fine, but he doesn't do meaningless platitudes. "We'll weather the storm," he says instead.

_Day Two_

Still no Ash.

"Blimey!" Sean murmered, staring reverently around the reception area. "This place is plush!"

Albert, hands in his pocket, nodded his agreement. "There are worse places to be ill." He cast an eye around in his turn, his manner reflective. "I may book in here myself, one day."

"Better warn them all to look after their cash then. Be like shooting fish in a barrel in here, wouldn't it?"

Albert winced a little at the off-colour remark. He should by rights have rebuked Sean for it, but he knew the young man was just whistling in the dark and was inclined to let it slide.

He was saved from the decision by the appearance of a pleasant young nurse from the staff area. "Mr Stroller and Mr Kennedy? If you'd come this way, please?" She conducted them along the corridor and unlocked a door. The bed within was neatly made, the room a little too tidy. "This was Mrs Morgan's room; everything's still in place for you. Would you like a cup of tea?" Both declined and she withdrew politely, leaving them to their task.

Each of them was carrying a large leather suitcase for the purposes of packing away the contents of the room so that Ash could go through them later; finest designer leather, specially liberated from an upmarket boutique that morning. Top-of-the-range luggage acquisition, grifter-style; June would have approved. There weren't many clothes hanging in the wardrobe, but what was there was of good quality and there were a number of classic labels amongst them, and Albert had wanted to bring containers of comparable distinction.

It was Sean who found the photograph – not on display, but in the top drawer of the table by the bedside amongst a clutter of other keepsakes. A much-younger Ash was smiling up at him, a lively dark-haired woman at his side. Their arms were twined around each others' waists and she had her chin resting on Ash's shoulder. Involuntarily Sean smiled back at his friend. "They really loved each other, didn't they?" he said aloud.

Albert turned and saw what he was holding. Sean passed the picture over and Albert looked at it fondly. "Yes," he said, "they did."

"So why the divorce?" Sean asked. "They stayed friends, right?"

"They did," the older man repeated. His eyes were sad. "Friends - and colleagues, too, on occasion. But a grifter's life and marriage don't always sit well. They found their relationship more straightforward apart than together."

Something in his voice made Sean suspect he wasn't being told the whole story, but it wasn't his business and he didn't ask. Albert returned the photograph to him and he studied it again. After a short period of deliberation he took out the organiser which had been Ash's gift to him last Christmas and tucked the picture inside it. He'd give it to Ash next time he saw him.

It took Mickey and Emma half the day to track Forgan down to a corner cafe with fake leather banquettes not far from the Ace Cafe, so by the time they'd located him they had their moves off pat.

Emma waited until Forgan had settled down with his coffee and his mobile phone, and only then did she bang open the door with savage force, tuning in the opening to yell at the man behind her: "Just get lost, Roscoe, you slimy scag-head! I'm not playing your twisted little game any more!"

Turning on her heel she swept past Forgan's table, a whirlwind of blonde hair and white wool coat. Mickey, a scowling thunderhead, loomed in her wake. Two feet from Billy Forgan's elbow he stopped, hissing threats under his breath. For a moment there was no reaction. He began to worry that they'd played it wrong and then, as Mickey took a pace forward, Forgan went for it. "I don't believe the lady wants to talk to you."

Mickey stopped, looked down at him with contempt. "You again. Who say she a lady?"

Forgan stood up, glaring at him with genuine dislike. Although the Irishman was half a head shorter Mickey backed up a step, mindful of Davey Bishop's broken nose. Forgan sneered victoriously. "She doesn't want to talk to you. She said it, now I'm saying it. Take a hike, gangster-boy."

Emma was standing behind Forgan's shoulder as though grateful for the protection. Forgan fixed Mickey with a ferocious stare and took a pace forward. Mickey hesitated just long enough and then gave an artfully disinterested shrug, breaking eye-contact. "What the hell, man. You want her, you take her. More trouble than she's worth, anyway, that mouth on her." He levelled a warning finger at Emma's face. "Just you be sure, here. I don't got your back no more, we clear on that?"

Emma folded her arms in defiance. "Crystal."

Mickey slunk away to sit in the car, earpiece in place, and listen to the conversation that transpired, hoping fervently that he wasn't going to have to go in on a rescue mission. He desperately missed the capably reassuring presence of Ash.

He wasn't the only one. "Burnt my boats there, I think!" Emma flopped theatrically into the vacant seat at Forgan's able, opening her long coat and shaking out her hair. She'd told Mickey a couple of days before that she wasn't afraid of Forgan; that wasn't strictly true. Her talk with Albert had set her back on-course, and the echoes raised in her psyche by the part she was playing troubled her much less, but of Forgan himself she was intensely wary.

The majority of the marks she'd dealt with in recent times had been powerful but foolish men, grown soft on years of believing their own infallibility. Even the more dangerous ones had mostly attained a certain level of sophistication. Forgan, though, like much of the rest of this con, was a throwback to her earlier experiences. Working with him felt like dealing with a dangerous dog; she was pretty sure she had his trust for the moment, but one false move and she knew he'd have her by the throat. She was waking a delicate line, balanced between keeping him fascinated and keeping herself protected.

"You need coffee," Forgan declared, signalling the waitress with an imperious finger. "You're better off without that Roscoe fella. I was going to call you over the next few days, as it happens. I've got a new arrangement with a supplier, and there should be some merchandise shipping soon."

Emma smiled triumphantly. "I knew I was onto a good thing with you when Oz introduced us," she said. "Once you've got things lined up, call me. I'll set up a meeting at my place."

"Maybe we should go over there now," Forgan suggested. "So I can familiarise myself with your... setup."

The suggestive pause in his voice was so subtle that it might well have passed un-noticed, had not Mickey and Emma already anticipated that Forgan would try to step directly into Roscoe's shoes and seek to dominate their partnership – and her. She'd been preparing her lines and she thought that she could hold him at bay. She wished Ash was sitting beside her.

"I don't think so, Mr Forgan." Keep it simple, clinical, unemotional. "I don't mix business with pleasure."

"We both know what your business is." Forgan was watching her as she was watching him, weighing his chances. The good news was that he didn't appear to actually fancy her. The bad news was, that might not matter. This was about power.

"What my business _used_ to be," she replied calmly. "I'm stepping up to management level." At this precise moment the waitress brought her coffee. Emma sat back in her seat to let the girl place the mug in front of her, grateful for a few seconds of thinking time. _How did you pacify a dog? You threw it a big, juicy bone._ "Which reminds me," she continued, seamlessly, as the waitress departed with Forgan's empty cup, "I've got a girl coming on board who I think might be right up your alley. Tall, dark, killer figure, does as she's told. She'll be running front of house, and she'll see to it that you get ... free access." She left the same infinitesimal hesitation in her phrase that he's left in his. And she'd just described Alise Balodis to him. She watched his eyes flare with lust.

_Go on, _she urged him silently. _You want that tall, compliant brunette, not this gobby little blonde._

Forgan considered and then grinned, showing too many teeth. "I like the way you think."

Mickey swung open the car door as Emma appeared and she climbed in.

"Okay?" he asked her.

She nodded. "Take me home," she said. "I need a shower. A long one. With lots and lots of antibacterial gel."

The gathered in the lounge area of the suite, a sober, quietly determined group.

"What next, Mickey?" asked Sean. "Can we really see this through without Ash?"

Mickey sat in thought for some seconds. "We want to achieve two things from this con," he said at length. "We want to rip off a large sum of money from Billy Forgan, and we want to rescue Alise Balodis. I think our best chance of achieving both is to carry them out simultaneously. Sean – you'll be the link at the docks, with Albert to help you out. Forgan's going to bring cash to pay off the traffickers and your job is to take the whole lot from him and get out of there without being caught."

"Piece of piss, obviously..." Sean muttered, though without rancour.

"Emma and I can't work the docks because Forgan knows our faces, so we'll go in and spring Alise while you've got Forgan occupied. The shipment's not due for a few days, which gives us time to refine the details of the scam at the docks and to scope out where Alise is and what the security arrangements are for her."

Mickey paused, frowning. "Clearly the one major obstacle to all this is that we're a man down on a job which was already tricky. The best way I can see of being safe is to get some backup on board." He looked round at the intent faces of his friends. "If anyone has some ideas for how we get round that one at such short notice, I'm all ears..."

It was Albert who broke the short silence which followed, a slight smile playing on his lips. "If the gods are smiling upon us," he said, "I believe I may have the perfect solution."


	11. Chapter 11

**This chapter assumes you've seen some of series 1 to 4. It is also a bit fangirly. But what the heck, eh?**

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* * *

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**Chapter 11**

The wind whipped keenly from the horizon, bringing a sprinkle of cold rain and making white spume on the pale sand. The promenade was deserted save for a single hardy individual walking in the distance and a scatter of rubbish scraping around in the squall. Apart from the occasional wind-sliding gull, not a soul moved on the beach. Ash leaned on the railing and stared at infinity, the chill knifing across his face. He'd come here chasing memories and ghosts, and found only the steely emptiness of the echoing sea. The isolation suited his current mood but he wasn't staying; his bag was already packed and waiting on the bed in his room in preparation for the next move. All he had to determine was what that next move should be.

He wasn't sure if he could face returning to London. He was fine with solving other people's problems and discussing feelings that weren't his, but his business was his own business. Except that now it wasn't. He'd dealt with the enormity of what had happened to June by playing it very low-key and coping with it in private; it was manageable so long as he didn't have to constantly discuss it and could handle it in his own way and his own time. But death isn't a private thing, and if he went back he'd have to share it all with everyone, have it out in the open with nowhere to hide.

If he didn't go back... he wasn't June's ex any more; if he wasn't the crew's fixer any more, who would he be? The eighteen months or so that he'd spent working alone after returning from America had been successful enough, but he'd had a purpose then – June needed him working to pay the bills at Tall Trees. With that purpose gone, he had no real incentive to jump back in the deep end and go solo. Besides which, his conscience was reminding him that he had unfinished business. At the very least he owed Sean an explanation for his behaviour.

And he really wanted a fag, but it was so bloody cold he wasn't sure whether he could keep his hands out of his pockets long enough to get one lit. Bollocks.

Sunk in his reverie he hadn't noticed the lone figure of the walker drawing closer, and was momentarily startled to discover that he was no longer alone. Half a second later he was very close to cardiac arrest to discover Stacie Monroe leaning against the railing beside him.

"What's wrong with a nice week in Margate?" she asked, giving him a sideways glance.

"It pissed down then as well," he replied with a commendable effort at imperturbability.

"Poor Ash. Rain on your honeymoon."

"We managed to keep occupied," he said.

"In the hotel casino, obviously," Stacie looked at him, straight-faced.

"Obviously," Ash replied, thinking back to a cramped, chintzy little room in an old-fashioned hotel in Margate and a week which had involved a great many takeaways, several bottles of wine and a lot of giggling. And a very large, extremely fluffy duvet, he recalled. He'd always meant to ask the landlady what the make was. And suddenly he realised that life was a tiny bit less painful, and stared at Stacie with a mixture of gratitude and awe.

She linked her arm through his. "I hope you know of somewhere nice we can go," she said, "Because I've been in LA for three years and I'm bloody freezing out here."

* * *

Vincenti's Cafe was cosy, yellow-painted and filled with chrome and mirrors; it had remained pretty much unchanged since the first Signor Vincenti had established it in the years after the second world war. It was small and had only four booths and a scattering of high stools at the counter, but the weather was so poor that they were the only customers and had the place pretty much to themselves.

"So when did Mick ring you?" Ash asked.

"It wasn't Mickey!" Stacie grinned from behind the huge cup of hot chocolate she was engaged in demolishing. "It was Albert."

"_Albert_?"

"I don't know why you're so surprised," Stacie said. "Albert sees things and understands things. He knew I'd know where to find you. Mickey's a clever man, but when it comes to relationships he's frankly a bit rubbish..." she caught Ash gaping at her with something approaching horror and reached out to lay a reassuring hand on his arm. "Not that I'm saying we're in a relationship. Just that Mickey's very good at reading marks but not so good with women."

Ash thought of Emma and gave a lopsided grin. "Have I got some tales to tell you. If you're staying..." he added, hurriedly. "I mean, if you've got to get back..."

Stacie threaded her fingers through his and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. "I just made a ten-hour flight and then a train-journey from London. I'm hardly likely to turn round and go straight back, am I?"

"Well, I thought you might have – you know – things to do, people to see."

"People? Which people?"

He was suddenly very interested in something on the formica surface of the table. "I thought maybe... you and Danny..."

"_Danny?" _Stacie burst out laughing. "Ash, he makes me laugh and he's a sweet boy, but he's my annoying little brother. I don't fancy him in the slightest, and to be honest it would feel a bit... well... indecent! Anyway; he knows I'm here but I didn't tell him why. He thinks I'm just on a visit. Only if I'd told him the full truth he'd have wanted to come – because he _does_ care about you, in his own way – and I thought maybe you'd prefer it if he didn't."

Ash still seemed to be concentrating on the table, but a smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah, you thought right." He glanced up, almost shyly. "So... you're staying?"

"I thought I might. If you didn't mind."

He lifted his head to look her straight in the eye. "I don't mind at all."

* * *

By unspoken mutual consent they checked Ash out of his hotel and found themselves a more upmarket place which had a bedroom and a double bed-settee in the lounge area. Stacie didn't ask what Ash's plans were and made no reference to the fact that his bag had been sitting ready-packed on his bed. He, relieved to have a good reason to avoid making a decision for the time being, made no reference to it.

They had a sandwich together in the hotel dining-room and then Stacie insisted on celebrating her return to British shores by going to the tackiest amusement arcade they could find and doing the full English Seaside Experience, including slot-machines, Penny Falls, Whack-a-Mole, Space Invaders and the teddy-picker. She had chips from a paper cone and Ash, much to her pretended disgust, a tray of whelks. And they talked, unceasingly, Ash leaning on the machines while Stacie played or shouting to her over his shoulder as he vanquished waves of descending aliens. Donkeys for miles around must have been trembling for the fate of their hind legs as the two of them bridged the three-year gap in their friendship and updated each other on the minutiae and gossip of their lives.

At the end of the day they bought a six-pack of real ale and a bottle of good wine, headed back to their hotel room, ordered pizza and proceeded to talk some more. With the pizza demolished, the wine finished and the beer-bottles emptied they finally sat together in companionable silence; Ash sprawled out with one arm outflung along the back of the sofa and Stacie, her feet tucked under her, curled up with her head almost, but not quite, resting on his shoulder.

He glanced down at her. "You asleep, Stace?"

"Not yet..." she answered, dreamily content.

"Just wanted to say thanks."

Stacie shifted round so that her elbow was propped on the cushions and leaned her head against her hand to regard him quizzically. "You don't have to thank me," she said. "I wanted to come."

Ash shrugged a little. "Long journey for a day in Margate."

"I'd have come twice the distance," she assured him, before drawing a long, slow breath and then finally broaching the topic they'd both been carefully not discussing all day. "I'm so sorry about June, Ash."

He shrank into himself immediately, as she'd known he would, folding his arms across his chest and staring down at his knees. "She didn't deserve any of it," he said, quietly but with rising intensity. "She was sweet, clever, funny, tough. She should've had six kids and twenty grandkids and lived into her nineties to watch 'em all grow up. Instead, she gets a cheapskate wedding, a naff honeymoon, a divorce and eight years of dying by inches..." His voice wavered and died away.

Stacie could have tried to tell him that he was doing himself an injustice, that June had loved him, that she'd made her own choices, that he couldn't have done any more than he had done. But that wasn't why she was there. She did what no-one else in the world could do for Ash in that moment – reached forward, put her arms around him, and held him tightly as the dam of his grief finally burst in a torrent of uncontrollable sobbing.

* * *

Ash woke up with the mother of all headaches, face-down on a bed. For a few moments he lay with his eyes closed, running a quick physical check. His head was splitting, his stomach gurgling like a drain and there appeared to be the remnants of a dead badger in his mouth. A cautious movement triggered off a couple of fireworks behind his eyelids and revealed that he was fully clothed – apart from his shoes. This then lead to a slow firing of his memory synapses, and with it a gradually-deepening sense of embarrassment.

Gingerly, he levered open one eye and raised his head a few inches. At least he didn't seem to have drooled on anything. When nothing untoward occurred he cautiously raised himself onto one elbow and essayed a couple of blinks. Through the open door of the bedroom he could see Stacie sitting on the sofa, flicking through a glossy magazine. She was wearing jogging-pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with her hair piled up in a towel. As he shifted his weight on the bed she glanced up, looking amused.

"Morning – just about!" Swinging to her feet she picked up a tray from the coffee-table and walked through to the bedroom. On the tray sat a glass of water, a packet of paracetomol and a bottle of fresh orange-juice from the mini-bar. "I thought I'd hold off over ordering anything to eat till I'd seen how you were."

He cleared his throat a couple of times and croaked: "Cheers..." before necking the pills with the water and downing the contents of the juice-bottle in two big gulps.

"Poor Ash!" Stacie's sympathy was not entirely convincing. "You do look rough."

"I'll be great when the little bastard behind me eyes puts his bloody hammer away!" Ash massaged his face cautiously with both hands. "You're still talking to me, then?"

"Shouldn't I be?"

He flushed and cleared his throat again. "I.. er.. made a pass at you last night..."

Stacie chuckled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Not exactly," she reassured him. "You drank most of the spirits out of the mini-bar, threw up in the bathroom twice, told me I was the most fabulous woman in the universe and fell asleep with your head in my lap. It was quite sweet, really." Reaching forward, she brushed the tousled hair off his forehead and dropped a swift kiss on his cheek. "Now then," she continued briskly, standing up, "shall I order breakfast?"

Rejuvenated by the certaintly that all was well between them, Ash squared his shoulders. "S'pose you'd better. Just get whatever and spare me the details..."

As Stacie headed off to ring room-service Ash went to the bathroom, where a short spell involving a hot shower, a lot of peppermint shower-gel and copious amounts of toothpaste helped a little. By the time he emerged, dressed, into the lounge area he felt able to face the poached eggs and toast Stacie had ordered.

"What next, then?" Stacie asked as they finished their meal.

Ash drained his fourth cup of tea and sighed. "That's what I was trying to suss out when you popped up and scared the bejeezus out of me yesterday," he said. He paused for some time, whilst Stacie poured another coffee and nibbled the last of her toast. "Back to London," he said at last. "We're in the middle of a con, they'll be worrying..." he hesitated and looked at her shyly. "Come with me?"

Stacie gave her most brilliant smile. "I thought you'd never ask!"


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry it takes me so long to update - but here is the next chapter. If lots of talking makes you impatient, you'll be glad to know that I haven't forgotten the con - that comes along again in the next chapter. Thanks for sticking with me...**

**Chapter 12**

It was still dark when Mickey woke up, but he knew he wouldn't sleep any longer that night. Concern for Ash and his whereabouts and the details of the con were conspiring to interrupt his sleep patterns to a fairly drastic degree; he was going to bed late and waking up early and un-rested. Lying on his back staring into the dark would serve no purpose, however, and he swung his long frame out of the bed and pulled on jogging pants and a long-sleeved black t-shirt before setting off on a quest for coffee.

As he stepped out of his door, a prickle ran up his spine. Something had changed, a detail he couldn't yet put his finger on. Most people would have noticed nothing, but Mickey wasn't most people; his entire world was built around attention to detail. Passing glances, tilts of the head, and changes in vocal inflection; these things were his stock in trade, and he was used to absorbing the atmosphere and layout of a room the moment he walked into it. The living area of the flat was not as he had left it a few hours ago. He stopped, listened, waited. A stirring of the air, a faint smell of... cigarette smoke? And then the dead giveaway – a faint, but distinct, red glow at the edge of his vision. With a sudden surge of gladness, Mickey realised that the french window was standing open, and Ash was standing on the balcony, smoking. Pausing only to pick up a jacket, Mickey walked out into the pre-dawn light and stood beside his friend.

Ash looked at him sideways. "Can't sleep, then?" he asked, as though the preceding four days had been the same as any other and he'd never left the hotel.

Mickey smiled, then sighed and shook his head. "I wish you'd said something," he said. "Talked to me – to Albert..."

"What would've been the point?" Ash asked. "Wouldn't have made me feel any better, you'd have got all worked up. You were already doing everything you could." He paused to take a drag on his cigarette and watched the smoke float into the gradually-lightening sky. "Something I learned from Albert a long time ago – we can't control everything. We're so used to setting up scenarios and running the show, we start thinking we can do it with life, as well. But we can't." He sniffed a little and sighed. "Some stuff's just there, and you deal with it."

Ash fell silent, and Mickey, knowing that the fixer had been waiting here to speak to him and that there was more to come, propped his elbows on the balcony and watched the slowly-wakening city-scape below them.

"What's happening with the con?" Ash said after a few moments, putting out the last of his cigarette and depositing the tab-end carefully in the packet.

"We're waiting for Forgan to ring us and tell us a shipment is coming," Mickey said patiently, recognising that Ash was working his way round to what he really wanted to say.

Ash nodded and was silent once more. Mickey said nothing, but leaned beside him on the balcony, wondering how many hundreds of times the two of them had stood like this, side by side in quiet companionship. Eventually Ash cleared his throat. "I... erm... I wanted to ask you a favour," he began, hesitatingly.

"Anything, anytime," Mickey replied immediately. "You know that."

That drew a diffident smile. "Yeah, Mick, I do. Look, it's... it's about the funeral. I'll sort out all the arrangements and stuff, that ain't the problem. But... will you get up and say something?" He kicked at the concrete edge of the balcony with the toe of his shoe. "You know me; I'll choke up or whatever... you're good at the gab and June was fond of you..." he broke off, his eyes suspiciously bright.

"Ash," Mickey said gently, "it would be an honour."

Temporarily beyond coherent speech, Ash nodded and gripped his friend's shoulder in wordless gratitude.

Mickey patted him on the arm a couple of times. "I was just going to put coffee on. Are you coming in?"

Clearing his throat again, Ash turned briefly back to look out over the rooftops. "Nah," he managed, his voice almost steady. "Gotta go see Nick the vicar, and a couple of other people. Just dropped me stuff off and thought I'd grab a quick word." He straightened up, his composure regained. "Catch you later in Eddie's, yeah? Bring me up to speed." With a final slap to Mickey's shoulder he was gone, moving swiftly and silently across the room to let himself out through the door.

As one door shut another literally opened and Albert emerged from his room, his eyes a little bleary behind his large, square spectacles. "Was that Ash I heard?" he enquired, peering around the lounge area.

"He's back," Mickey confirmed, light-headed with relief. "A bit shaken, but I think he's fine."

"Good, good," Albert smiled privately to himself as he turned back to his room. "I'm sure we'll have the full picture in due course."

* * *

Ash wished he'd had a camera in his hand when they walked into Eddie's a couple of hours later. The place was empty save for the barman's stocky figure pottering around with a disinfectant spray and a damp cloth, giving the tables a quick once-over. Ash and Stacie, totally un-noticed, stood watching him for a few seconds before Stacie said: "I like what you've done with the place, Eddie!"

"Jesus wept!" Eddie's plastic bottle of Dettox went skidding across the shiny table-top as he jumped in shock and staggered round to face the smiling pair. "Stacie! What are you...? Ash! You're back! Where've you...? Stacie, it's really good to see you... Ash, are you okay, mate? Everyone was..."

"Eddie!" Ash cut in across his friend's stream of semi-consciousness. "Any chance of breakfast? We're starving over here." He picked up the fallen bottle of antibacterial cleaner and stood it on the bar out of harm's way as Stacie did her part to stem the flow of questions and exclamations by taking both Eddie's hands in hers and dropping an affectionate kiss on his cheek.

Blushing with flustered delight, Eddie beamed. "You look great, Stacie. America's been treating you well."

"Breakfast?" Ash reminded him imploringly, and Eddie hurried behind the bar to put on the coffee machine, then into the kitchen to get things started.

They had seated themselves in a booth by the time he returned with a tray of toast and coffee. "'Ere y'go," he said, setting his burden down with an air of accomplishment. "Frying-pan's just warming up for the rest."

"Cor, thanks, Eddie!" Ash attacked the toast with vigour whilst Stacie set the cups out and began pouring milk and coffee.

"No bother, mate. Listen, I was really sorry to hear about June." Ash nodded his thanks, his mouth full, and Eddie went on: "She was clever, and good for a laugh... _and_ she always paid her tab. Unusual quality in a grifter, that is."

"Oh, that reminds me..." Stacie dug in her handbag.

Eddie held up his hands. "No, no, no! I'm not going to take payment from the prodigal son... well, daughter. This one's on the house." As he bustled back into the kitchen, Ash and Stacie exchanged looks.

"Did you just use my grief and your long-awaited return from far-off shores to get us a free breakfast?" Ash asked in tones of disappointment and reproof.

She stared at him with dark, serious eyes. "Absolutely."

"You're a very, very bad woman."

"I learned from the best."

* * *

"Albert's being mysterious," Emma said, pitching her voice so that the veteran grifter could hear her clearly. "I get uneasy when he's being mysterious."

Albert smiled a maddening smile. "Whatever makes you think that?"

The air inside the black London cab was a festive one – Mickey had told Sean and Emma that Ash was safely home, although he hadn't mentioned their early-morning conversation on the balcony. He reckoned that since Ash had turned up at a time when he was likely to catch Mickey on his own then the fixer didn't especially want the visit to be public knowledge. Albert would keep his own counsel and say nothing, Mickey knew.

"You're definitely planning something," Emma declared, narrowing her eyes at Albert, who remained inscrutable.

The cab disgorged them just round the corner from Eddie's and they hurried, a happily-chattering group, in through the door and headed in the direction of the bar. As they rounded the end of the bar they all, with the exception of Albert, stopped dead in their tracks. Ash, looking paler and thinner but otherwise intact, sat in their usual booth, deep in conversation with a stunningly beautiful woman with a wave of long dark hair and cheekbones several supermodels would have undergone major surgery to possess.

Mickey gaped, astounded.

Sean stared, enthralled.

Emma glared, suspicious.

Albert held out both arms as he walked the last few feet and exclaimed in jubilation: "Welcome home, my dear. Welcome home!"

With a squeak of joy Stacie jumped to her feet and flung both arms around her old friend. "Albie! It's so good to _see _you! And you look wonderful. Have you been behaving yourself?"

"Not one bit!" he assured her, hugging her affectionately.

Somewhere in the middle of their mutual admiration society, Mickey found his voice. "_Stacie_?"

Albert sat down beside Ash as Stacie turned round. Laughing, she held out her hand. "Mickey. I hope I haven't changed that much!"

If it had been anyone else Mickey would have started up the blarney, but this was Stacie. She'd been impervious for years. "Are you going to slap me this time?"

Stacie cocked her head and considered his question. "Probably not," she replied, in a tone which suggested it was always a possibility. "I'm the one who ran away to America and didn't come back, so you're safe." _For now_, her eyes added mischievously.

"I'm glad you're home." Mickey put a hand on each of her shoulders and smiled.

She reached up to put her arms around his neck and held him close. "It's good to be here," she assured him, pressing her cheek against his.

Emma and Sean, temporarily outcast, stood on the sidelines. "So that's presumably Stacie Monroe," Emma said, trying hard not to sound caustic. She looked at her brother with exasperation. "What are you goggling at?"

"Ash said she was a looker," Sean murmured in tones of deep reverence, "but I never imagined..."

"Oh for heaven's sake," snapped Emma under her breath. "Shut your mouth before you swallow a fly!"

At that precise moment Mickey remembered his manners. "Stacie – I need to introduce you to Sean and Emma Kennedy."

He beckoned them over and Sean set off at once, boyish charm radiating from every fibre of his being. Emma hung back for a split second, and then she saw the look of happiness on Ash's strained face and mentally slapped her own wrists for being a self-centred cow. Fixing a convincing smile securely in place she walked across to join her friends.

* * *

Some hours and a great deal of catching-up, reminiscing and explaining later, Ash caught a moment alone with Albert by the bar. "I want a word with you!" he said with mock ferocity.

"If it's about that tip I gave you last week – I got the horse's name from a friend of a friend, and he absolutely assured me it would romp home; I don't understand what went wrong, I'm sure."

"Leave it out, Albert. You set me up again, didn't'cha?"

Albert beamed at him. "I knew Stacie would know where you were, my boy. And I thought she would want to come back here with you, which would take the pressure off you a little, save everyone plying you with questions you didn't want to answer." He patted Ash's hand gently. "She was happy to do it. She's known you all her life, and you have her heart, just as she has yours." Ash, looking faintly panicked, opened his mouth to speak and Albert cut him off swiftly. "Don't worry – it's not that obvious," he reassured his friend. "Stacie and I have stayed in touch, and I flatter myself that perhaps I'm something of a father figure to her. We've talked. For what it's worth, I'm delighted for you both."

Ash nodded slowly, a smile just touching the corners of his mouth despite the fact that he was blushing with embarrassment. "I won't forget this, Albert. If there's ever anything I can do..."

"You can get me a Scotch," the old man replied instantly, and grinned as Ash began to laugh. Then he looked more serious. "Call it payback for finding Lilly. I lost her, as you lost June. You have another chance. Grab it while you can."


	13. Chapter 13

**And so, finally, another update. Sincere apologies for the stop-start nature of this fic; I'm sure it's losing me readers!**

**A quick summary of the story so far so that you don't have to read back over 12 chapters...**

**The crew are conning Billy Forgan, a shady businessman who deals in property but has a sideline in people-smuggling and prostitution. Ash has been working as the roper, Emma is the inside man. This has been foced on Mickey due to the nature of the mark and the con, but he's unhappy with it. Emma has struggled with her role as a prostitute, finding that it brought up unwanted associations for her. Sean is playing the part of a Russian Mafia gang-member who wants to become part of Forgan's smuggling ring. Ash's ex-wife, June, has died and Stacie has returned from America to support Ash... and possibly more, if he'll have her!**

**Now read on... :-)**

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* * *

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**Chapter 13**

RINGTONE: _1812 Overture_

CALLER: Linford

Sean hastily scrambled for his phone. "Dumenko."

"Mr Dumenko, this is Malcolm Linford. I'm moving a cargo to Amsterdam on the fifteenth and there'll be some space available on the return trip if you can fill it."

"Excellent, Mr Linford. You shall send me details of your exact location and I shall utilise the space you have available for me. I will have my men meet you to load the shipment and pay your fee."

* * *

RINGTONE: _Traditional Bell_

CALLER: Supplies

"William Forgan."

"Mr Forgan, this is Dumenko. I have dates for shipment. If you have cash available, I can supply the items you require."

"Cashflow is no problem, Dumenko. Let me know the time and place and I'll be there. Call me when you have the shipment aboard and we'll discuss terms."

* * *

TEXT-TONE: _Simple Beep_

CALLER: Little Irish Psycho

MESSAGE: Shipment on move. Need to meet. Your place. Call me. F.

* * *

"In your dreams, you nasty little... Hello, is that Mr Forgan? Hi, it's Chrissie. Yeah, that's _great, _I'm so excited! Sure, the twelfth is fine. 9pm, at the house? See you there!" Emma ended the call with a flourish and turned off her phone. "All set up," she said, tucking it away into her bag.

"You'll need someone with you," Mickey said. "You don't meet him there alone."

"Let's leave that conversation till tomorrow," Emma gestured at the sober group standing a few yards away. "This is what we need to focus on today."

Mickey nodded and walked over to stand by Ash. "Ready?" he asked quietly.

Pale-faced in his dark suit, Ash glanced up and gave a tiny affirmative shrug. Flanked by Mickey and Stacie, with Albert and Sean walking immediately behind them and Emma guarding the rear, he led the way into the church.

* * *

"Set 'em up, Eddie!" called Emma, and the watching crowd cheered encouragingly as the barman filled a succession of gleaming shot-glasses with hard spirits.

Over at the bar, Albert leaned toward Stacie. "Are we sure this is sensible?" he enquired.

Stacie sighed, looking over to where Ash and Emma were facing each other across a table, surrounded by a raucous group of grifters and minor criminals. Mickey stood behind Ash and Sean was at his sister's shoulder. Between the two combatants were ranked a double row of full glasses, and Eddie was already filling another set in readiness for round two. "Well, it's either this or everybody goes home and Ash shuts himself away on his own and broods. I think this is probably the lesser of two evils. Besides – I've got fifty quid on Ash to win!"

Albert chuckled quietly. "Well, I guess it's partly my fault anyhow. I'm the one who told Ash that Emma could drink him under the table when I introduced them..."

Stacie opened her mouth to reply but was interrupted by the approach of the only other entirely sober individual in the room. The Reverend Nicholas Faulkner had removed his dog-collar and consequently looked more like a wrestler than a man of the cloth, his blue shirt strained tightly across his barrel chest. "So, this is how grifters do wakes, is it?"

"This is what we call 'a damn good send-off'. A wake is a lot more... buffet oriented," Albert said.

"And June deserved a damn good send-off." Faulkner heaved his bulk up onto the stool beside Stacie and cast an appraising eye across the contest, which was now well under way. "Who's taking the bets?"

"Fancy a flutter, Nick, or are you going to pray for their souls?" enquired Albert, his eyes twinkling.

"The two aren't necessarily mutually exclusive."

"I knew there was a reason you got on so well with Ash!"

Faulkner gave a deep laugh. "_Someone_ has to keep an eye on you lot's moral welfare – I might as well make a small profit from it where I can!"

"Is it true you met Ash at school?" Stacie eyed the big man beside her doubtfully. That prompted another burst of laughter, loud enough that several startled heads turned in their direction.

"Oi, keep it down over there!" Ash directed tipsily.

Stacie blew him a kiss and turned back to the vicar. "So...?" she prompted.

Faulkner was still grinning. "I wouldn't call it school, exactly. When I was a very young curate, part of my pastoral care work included weekly visits to help run a sports session at the local Young Offenders unit." As Stacie began to giggle behind her hand, he added: "He was a few pounds lighter in those days... mind you, we both were." Here, he cast a rueful eye down at his ample torso. "He wasn't a bad footballer, as I recall. And he always gave me my cigarette packet back after he'd nicked it and smoked a couple... and after he got out, we stayed in touch and had the odd pint now and again. As you do, with Ash."

"As you do," Stacie agreed fondly.

"So – d'you want to book the wedding in now, or let me know?" The wicked twinkle in Faulkner's eyes deepened as Stacie blushed and stammered. "You could do worse," he told her, smiling, before getting to his feet with a purposeful air. "Now then. Where's this chap I need to see about a flutter?"

Relieved at the change of subject and eager not to catch Albert's eye, Stacie called Eddie over and ordered a cafetiere and a plate of chocolate biscuits to soothe her nerves. By the time she'd listened to Eddie fretting about breakages, and how grifters never bleeding paid for anything, and what a bunch of freeloaders were in tonight, not but what June didn't deserve a good send-off but it didn't come cheap, and who was going to get the bill, he'd like to know, she had recovered her equilibrium, and even felt able to go across to the central table and cheer on an ever-more inebriated Ash.

The drinking game went on for some time - the two participants were well-matched and in good practice - but ended abruptly at around one in the morning when Emma suddenly turned pale, lurched from her seat and rushed off to the loo. Ash rose to his feet in an exaggeratedly careful fashion, received his applause with the air of a monarch greeting his adoring public, and then tilted gently to the left, his eyes sliding shut. Mickey made a quick grab and managed to guide his friend onto a nearby banquette from which steady snoring was immediately audible.

Amidst cheers and good-natured laughter, bets were settled and final toasts drunk, and by around two o'clock Eddie's Bar was back to its normal state of occupation. Its proprietor stared around wearily at the accumulated detritus and sticky table-tops and sighed in a martyred fashion. "Sod this for a game of soldiers – I'm cleaning up in the morning. Come on, you lot!" he added, loudly. "Unless you want locking in with the heating off."

The more sober members of the crew poured Ash onto the back seat of the black cab, propped a still-slightly-green Emma by the open window opposite and made the journey home to the music of Ash's snorts and whistles.

* * *

Stacie sat alone on the balcony, letting the breeze cool her face and remembering the hundreds of times in the past she'd sat like this. There was something she found comforting about the constantly-shifting soundscape of the city and it never failed to soothe her when her composure was ruffled. A quiet, familiar footfall sounded behind her, and she smiled. "Hello, Mickey," she said without turning her head.

"Hello," he said, and she could hear the answering smile in his voice. "That was quite a night."

She looked teasingly over her shoulder to where he was leaning against the patio door. "I'm surprised you remember any of it," she said. "I think Albert and I were the only sober souls in the place by midnight."

Mickey walked round and sat in the chair at her side. "I'm not even slightly inebriated," he assured her. "I just didn't want Ash to think I was keeping too much of an eye on him."

Stacie laughed, but she knew he was telling the truth. His eyes were bright and steady, even at this ungodly hour.

"I'm glad I caught you alone," Mickey continued. "I've been meaning to ask if you were staying on. Because if you are, I could really use your help with this con."

She gave a rueful nod. "I'm staying," she said. "I ran halfway round the world trying to escape from my own feelings, but in the end, here I am, back again." In answer to his questioning look she drew a slow breath and went on: "After I got over you, and after Jake, I swore to myself that was it for me – I was sticking with friendships. Less complicated. But it just... happened. It was different from anything I'd felt before; there was no agonising, no melodrama. I never realised love could feel that way – warm, like being wrapped in a blanket and kept safe."

The questions dissolved from Mickey's eyes as she explained, to be replaced by slowly-increasing delight. "You... and Ash?"

"I think so... I hope so." Stacie drew her knees up to her chest and gazed out at the city. "But what if I'm wrong, Mickey? We've never talked about it; I just assumed. What if he doesn't feel the same way, and I scare him off and ruin our friendship?"

Mickey put a comforting arm round her shoulders. "You won't get it wrong, Stacie. You know him better than anyone. Just give him a little time, and you'll know."

She rested her head against his shoulder in silent gratitude and they sat together, listening to the muted roar of the London night.

Behind them, unseen, Emma stared in misery at the two dark heads resting so naturally together. They looked right as a couple in a way she feared she would never experience. She wasn't sure what she'd ever been thinking; Mickey clearly didn't want to complicate his life by hooking up with a woman who had commitment issues and was ten years his junior. She didn't blame him. Closing her bedroom door behind her she retreated to seek solace in sleep.

* * *

Luckily for Emma, Ash and Sean were so hungover the next morning that everyone simply assumed her symptoms came from the same source – which they did, partly. The crew sat in their familiar semicircle, with Mickey prowling the carpet at centre-stage looking bright-eyed and enthusiastic on three hours sleep. Emma hid behind her dark glasses and tried not to snarl at everybody.

"My feeling is that everything's about to snowball," Mickey said. "We're going to have to pull all the strands together and make sure we're ready to put the whole plan in place at short notice. I'd like Ash to go with Emma..."

"That won't work," Sean broke in. "I need Ash with me. Sorry," he added as Mickey, cut off in mid-flow, frowned irritably, "but there's no way I'll get everything finished there without the main man."

Conceding the point, Mickey looked around the group, thinking aloud. "I can't go, he knows me as Roscoe and we've cut that partnership off... Albert?"

"I'd gladly be there," Albert said, "but Mrs Carmen will be without her escort if I do. And there's always the possibility I could be needed in the closing stages, which might queer the pitch."

"I'm not sure what cover story you'd give him, either," Ash put in. "'Ello, Mr Forgan, this is my granddad..."

Sean grinned as Emma and Albert both turned to stare pointedly at the fixer.

"I can go," Stacie suggested. Every head turned toward her and she shrugged in vague embarrassment. "It seems the logical thing," she went on. "No problem coming up with a cover story for me; he'll be expecting to see other women there. And I can easily fit it in with the other things you've asked me to do."

"I'm not sure... this guy's not safe, Stacie."

"Mickey, I've been working casinos in Los Angeles for the last three years with only one of Danny's plans for a safety net. I'm quite sure that Emma and I can cope with one mark."

"Even if he is a little Irish psycho!" Sean put in unhelpfully.

"Emma?" Mickey turned to look at the younger woman.

It was Emma's turn to shrug, though in her case she was buying herself a couple of seconds thinking-time. "It's the best solution," she said, hoping that she didn't sound too reluctant. It wasn't Stacie's fault that she'd dashed Emma's half-formed dreams.

"Okay." All the reluctance Emma had tried to conceal was clear in Mickey's tone, but they all knew that Emma was right; it was the best solution. That decision made he squared his shoulders and looked at each of the crew in turn. "So, where are we up to...Sean?"

"Planning the best route."

"Ash?"

"Documents, currency, accommodation."

"Stacie?"

"Job application."

"Albert?"

"Pulling a few strings to help Stacie's interview go smoothly."

"Emma?"

"Recruiting."

"That all sounds in order." Mickey surveyed them all again. "I think that's everything we need to do."

Stacie cleared her throat. "Eddie did suggest we might like to help him tidy up from last night..."

"Like the man said," Sean broke in firmly, "that's _everything_ we need to do!"


End file.
